


Same Game I thru IX

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-15
Updated: 2000-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: To help Mulder deal with the aftermath of a difficult VCS case, Skinner takes him out for a little one on one.





	Same Game I thru IX

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Same Game: Part I - Tip Off by Mik

TITLE: Same Game: Part I - Tip Off  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: To help Mulder deal with the aftermath of a difficult VCS case, Skinner takes him out for a little one on one.  
FEEDBACK - Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.   
* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", and for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps".

* * *

Same Game: Part I - Tip Off  
by Mik

Ever thought about dying? I mean, just have a moment when it seems there is no point in going on? I was having one of those nights. The bastard not only got another victim but I know he's moved on, now, and there's no way to find him again until he starts leaving bodies behind.

I screwed up good, completely missed a chance to stop him and, while no one has actually verbalized it, I know everyone's thinking I could have stopped him, should have stopped him.

I'll tell you how bad it had gotten. I wandered into the hotel bar, sent my gaze around to assess things and settled on the balding pate of my superior. Sensing my study, he looked up and his eyes locked on mine. I was in his crosshairs, and could feel the little red dot on my chest. Just a matter of time before he pulled the trigger and splattered me all over the tacky wall paper behind me. Suddenly, I not only wanted to die, I had developed a plan for going. This is where any mental health professional would have ordered a twenty-three hour hold, and I'd be in the back of an ambulance wearing a stunning white jacket that was NOT designed by Armani.

I sauntered in the direction of his booth, signaled the waitress for a beer and settled down before him, uninvited. "Go ahead, sir," I taunted, adding insult with an insolent grin. "Blow up and get it over with. I just finished my will."

Nothing.

I looked up. He was looking at me as if he had never seen something like me, not even on Wild Discovery.

My beer came and he pointed, discretely, toward his nearly empty glass.

"I just came from the morgue, Mulder," he said quietly.

"Yeah. I was there earlier," I admitted, not so brash now. It's hard to make jokes about a woman stabbed more than a hundred times, thirty or forty of the blows in the palms of her hands, indicating that she had attempted to fight him off, or held her hands up in supplication, begging him to stop.

Hearing an odd sound, I looked down at the table. The rumble I was hearing was the glass bottom of my beer bottle trembling on the table.

He reached over and locked his fingers around my wrist. "It wasn't your fault, Mulder," he said, and released me.

Released. I was released, absolved, forgiven. I was released, let go, free falling. I bit my lip. "I could have-"

"How?"

One word argument. Brilliant. How? How indeed. "I don't know, I must have missed something-"

"Mulder."

I looked at him. My eyes were burning. Someone must have been smoking in the bar.

"Look there." He was pointing to a mirrored beer ad on the wall next to us.

"It's the water," I agreed, firmly.

"Do you see yourself? Can you see your reflection?"

I frowned at my reflection. "Uh...yes, sir."

"You must be human, after all," he concluded, and nodded his thanks to the waitress when she brought him another scotch.

"Uh...sir," I began, tentatively. "That only proves I'm not a vampire."

He answered with a shrug. A brilliant rebuttal. Couldn't argue with it.

I took a sip. It was bitter on my tongue. I guess I still wanted to die. I just needed a new plan. "Well." I put the bottle down and stood, digging into my pocket. "I guess I'd better-"

"What did you want, Mulder?" He wasn't looking at me. He was just staring off to a better time and place, his fingers locked together to support his glass.

"Want, sir?"

"You wanted more than a single sip of beer." His eyes focused again and darted toward the bottle I was abandoning. "So, what did you really want?"

I swallowed. "I..."

"I'll tell you." He put his glass down and levered himself up, digging into his own pocket, brushing my money away. He put a hand on my shoulder and turned me, forcefully, with the touch of his fingers. We went through the bar silently, the eyes of a half dozen of our task force team members following, knowingly. Mulder's about to get his comeuppance was almost a refrain throughout the bar.

As we reached the lobby, he paused, looked around and lowered his hand.

My shoulder was suddenly cold where his hand had been. "Sir?" I prompted.

He looked at me, vacantly.

Oh, shit, he's drunk! "You were going to tell me what I came into the bar for," I reminded him.

His eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. He almost...almost smiled! "I think you came in there looking for someone to beat you up, physically or emotionally, just so you could pay your penance for that woman's death and get some sleep tonight."

I smirked at him. "That's good, doctor. I didn't know YOU were a psychologist, too."

"Actually, I got that from reading all your profiling, Mulder." He started to walk, and when I didn't follow, he turned and looked back at me. "Well, I'm not going to do it. You don't deserve the beating, but I won't convince you of that so I won't waste the breath. "

I was disappointed, and I know it showed in my expression. "Thanks for the analysis," I snapped and started in the other direction.

His hand came down on my shoulder, sharply. "I'm going to find another way to make sure you sleep tonight."

I swear to you, something inside me tightened and let go. It wasn't exactly fear and it wasn't exactly excitement, and it wasn't exactly sexual, but it was as real as his hand on my shoulder. "Oh?" I tried to sound cocky. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe a little one on one."

Oh, that's it, just kill me now. I closed my eyes, drew in a shaky breath. I actually had a sexual fantasy, albeit brief, about another man, about my boss.

"I hear you think you're pretty good with a basketball."

Basketball! Okay, he means basketball. Breathe, Mulder. "I am." 

"We'll see. There's bound to be a high school or a park around here.

Let's go shoot some hoops."

I never thought I would ever hear the phrase 'shoot some hoops' come out of that mouth. "And...and where would we find said basketball, sir?"

"There's a sporting good store about a block from here." He started another smile...I think it was a smile, it might have been a sneer. "My treat."

Cold air in my lungs, a chance to move my legs, a little competition, a little distraction... I grinned at him. "I'm going to whip the court with your ass...sir."

He did smile this time. It went all the way to his eyes, and I'll be damned if it wasn't beautiful. "Listen, punk, you may be forty pounds lighter and ten years younger, but I've got moves you've never seen."

I'll bet you do, I thought. "You're on. Shall we make it interesting?"

He stopped and I wish I knew what he wanted to say, because it was clear what came out of his mouth wasn't what he wanted. "Fifty?"

I held out my hand. "You're on."

I met him in the parking lot fifteen minutes later, in running shorts and a tee shirt, my hooded sweatshirt tied around my waist. He was in Bureau sweats, a match set, navy and white, high top running shoes. He looked like an ad for Nike: Just do it--or else.

I considered him again. He looked capable. He didn't look incapacitated, still, I had to ask. "Sir, do you want me to drive? You've been drinking..."

He gave me a weary look. "A glass and a half of scotch on a full stomach is not going to make me a danger to myself or others. Do you want me to walk a straight line, or touch my nose, or say the alphabet backwards?"

I hunched my shoulders forward. "No, sir," I mumbled. We climbed into the car and made for the sports store. He turned and looked at me as he pulled the parking brake. "Do you have any preferences?" 

I shook my head. "Round."

He chuckled and climbed out of the car. In a matter of minutes, he returned, with a traditional brown Spalding, spinning on one fingertip.

The man has moves...

He had also gotten instructions to the nearest park. It was open, and empty, and ill-lit, with only one or two lights over the court and one of them seemed undecided about staying on. He shot the ball to me as I was climbing out of the car, and I dribbled it as I walked to the court. My whole body was buzzing, like a junkie just before the needle goes in. I was getting something I needed, needed bad. 

For a moment or two, we circled each other, passing the ball back and forth, sizing one another up, and then I snatched the ball from his long, thick fingers and went up to release, and let the ball sail over his head and hit the wire basket. It felt good. I came down and bounced a little on the balls of my feet.

He went to retrieve the ball, dribbled it a little, lazily, toying with me. As I charged him, he feinted left, came right, bumped me with one of those massive shoulders, took the ball right up underneath and nonchalantly dropped it in, as if tossing away a crumpled piece of paper. He grinned at me as he snatched the ball on the way back down. "Fifty, Mulder?"

"Well, we're still even," I reminded him, slapping the ball away from him. 

"Not for long," he promised, and came after me.

It was a good game. For a while I could forget about an asshole who gets his psycho-sexual thrills from stabbing women while they beg for mercy, and then jerks off over them while they're dying. For a while I could forget about Samantha, and Scully's cancer, and Emily and Scully's sister and and...and...

The guy was good, I have to admit. The lead bounced back and forth between us, only a point or two each way. But each time one of us regained superiority, the other got more aggressive. Within a half hour, we were body checking each other, tripping and ramming. While I had speed and agility on my side, he had force, determination and brute strength on his.

I was four steps from the key, when he came at me from my blindside, and not only knocked the ball from my hands, but took me all the way to the ravaged asphalt. I must have let out a yelp because he backed off of me as if it was a reverse action film. I laid there, gasping for breath and trying to assess damage while he leaned over me, frowning. "Are you okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, fine," I gasped, and tried to roll to my side and up on to my knees.

One of my knees objected to this plan, and I found myself on my side, my knee tucked up against my chest. "Shit," I said with feeling.

He was on his hands and knees beside me, his hands everywhere, trying to help and not knowing how. "What is it? Where does it hurt? Is something broken?"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," I insisted, rolling onto my back, slowly. "Just twisted my knee or something."

"Let me see." His hands slid over my knee, gently, and all I could remember was how warm his fingers were...

XXX

There was no question about swelling. He had a good sprain at least. I didn't think there was anything broken, but I did know he was in pain.

Mulder wears pain like a cloak sometimes, and he's worn it for so long, it has become a good fit. I wanted to check his knee for range of motion but I couldn't do it with him flat on his back. I sent a glance around and saw a bench near the gate, but it was at least thirty paces. There was no way Mulder could limp that far, even with my support. So, I did what a Marine's got to do. I scooped him up in my arms.

He was clearly disconcerted to find himself being swept along but, being Mulder, he reacted in a typically Mulderish fashion. He draped his arms around my neck, pressed his cheek to my shoulder, and purred (yes, purred),

"Be gentle with me, sir."

I had another one of those uncomfortably warm feelings I get around him sometimes. I've only experienced that feeling two other times that I recall; once in 'Nam, when I accidentally came across two soldiers finding solace with one another, and again when I was on the Force in Dallas, and I was assigned, briefly, to a partner who caused me several sleepless nights. I was young, green, newly back from the war, and this guy was brilliant and funny and had sweet, sleepy eyes. I developed an old fashioned crush. I never acted on my feelings, but I did get to a point where I allowed myself the odd masturbatory fantasy.

Mulder reminds me a lot of him, and there have been times when I've been nose to nose with him and wanted to catch his face between my hands and break all kinds of regulations. There have always been rumors about Mulder, some saying he'd screwed his way through Quantico, others who insisted he and Scully were much more than partners, and still others who felt Mulder wouldn't recognize a sexual urge if it came up and bit him on the ass. I've always felt he might have a strong sex drive and simply tamps it down, one more opportunity to flagellate himself for his perceived failures. He definitely exudes something.

I eased him down on the bench and knelt in front of him, a hand on his ankle, another on his inner thigh, just above the knee, twisting and turning gently.

There was something strangely enticing about the sweaty flesh of his leg, and the idea that I was within reach of something, if I just spread my fingers a bit wider... "How's that feel, Mulder?"

"S'okay," he gasped.

I wondered if my touch disturbed him. Shifting slightly before him, I maneuvered myself between his knees, and forced them apart, further testing his range of motion, further satisfying my need to touch his thigh. Now I had my palm resting on his thigh, just below the hem of his shorts. His flesh was hot, muscled, sticky. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine what I would find beneath those shorts. "How's that?"

He didn't answer and I looked at him. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back. "Mulder?"

He opened his eyes. "Fine, sir," he said, quietly.

"I think you've got a bad sprain there. Shall I take you to an Emergency Room?"

"For a sprain, sir? I don't think so." His eyes dipped to my hand. "I think I should just stay off of it for a little while. I'll bet Scully can put an Ace on it and I'll be fine."

I moved my hand, lowered his foot to the ground and stood. "We'll start with ice and heat, and then see what you need. Do you think you can walk to the car?" 

He nodded, but I wasn't convinced so I caught him under the arms and tried to pull him up, even though he had become dead weight in my hands. I tugged.

When he came up, he was nose to nose with me again. He opened his eyes wide, and stared at me. I stared back, wanting to dive into those pools of moss and wood bark. I slid an arm around his waist and held him to me. His hands came up to my shoulders, and tightened. For a moment, it seemed, the fate of the entire world hung in the balance of that awkward embrace. "Sir," he said, softly, and I could feel his breath on my lips. "What are we doing?"

"Dancing?" I suggested, trying to cover an embarrassing need to kiss him. "And I get to lead. Come on." With a grunt I stooped and pulled him back up into my arms.

He draped his arms around my neck again, and this time pressed his cheek to mine. "Have you ever..." the words died.

He didn't need to finish. I knew what he was asking me. "No," I told him.

I wanted that to be the end of the discussion, but more words tumbled out of me. "You?"

He shook his head faintly against me.

I stopped and twisted to look down at him. "Have you ever wanted to?"

Those wide eyes got impossibly wider. "I..." He stopped, licked at his bottom lip and began again. "Not until now." He closed his eyes and I felt a tremor run through his body. He reminded me of a man about to put his head on the block.

I stopped in front of the car and eased him to his feet. "Look, Mulder, what are you playing at?"

His eyes popped open. "Nothing."

"I know what you're trying to do," I said, gruffly. "You figure I won't beat you up for what happened today, so you're deliberately trying to be provocative so I'll take a swing at you for something else." My voice got rougher still. "Well, I've got news for you, Mulder. I'm not going to play your game."

He continued to stare at me, stunned. "What makes you think..." He stopped, surrendered, shook his head. "I want to go get off this knee," he murmured and tried to hobble away from me.

I caught his shoulder. "Why did you ask?"

He didn't meet my eyes. "I don't know," he said, and he sounded so bewildered I believed him. "Why did you?"

"Because I've always wondered about you," I confessed.

"Ah, yes, everyone wonders about Spooky Mulder," he said grimly. "It's my video library, you see. I'm an equal opportunity voyeur." 

"You mean, you've watched gay porn," I concluded, mildly titillated. I could never bring myself to rent one.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"And do you..." I stopped, helpless.

"Get off?" he asked with a wry twist to his mouth. "Sure. Why not? When you're alone, who cares what does it for you, right?" He was fumbling, trying to find the door handle behind him.

I had embarrassed him. I never thought it could be done. "Mulder." He wouldn't look at me. "Mulder." I caught his chin with my hand and forced it upward, letting my eyes sweep over his face as if I was caressing it.

Beautiful face, I had to acknowledge.

I've heard the expression and then time stopped but I've never believed it. Not until that moment, holding his face in my hand, holding his eyes in my gaze. His lips parted slightly, and his breath was warm and quick and shallow against my face. He looked at me and I looked back. No, I told myself. It's insanity. It's against all the rules and regulations I fight to uphold every day. It's instant fuel for any conflagration they would want to start in his life. No, I told myself again.

He trembled again, sucked his lower lip into his mouth for a moment, and released it on a sigh of warm air. His eyes were nothing more than the black depths of his pupils.

"If there was no chance at recrimination, no danger of backlash, no way to receive the penance you so desperately seek, would you still want this?"

I could see him weigh it; wonder, curiosity, hope, need. Then his hand came up and his fingers curled around my wrist, easing it away. With effort, balancing himself on one leg, he brought his lips to mine.

Terror. My first reaction was terror. It was an intense flame that raced through me, and then, within the ash was another fire, deep banked, smoldering. Desire. I caught his shoulders and held them, lest he back away. He opened his mouth for me and I slipped inside and found the taste of beer, and the salt of sunflower seeds and ancient coffee and...and need.

He came alive suddenly, bringing his hands up to my face, forcing himself into my mouth, making a small sound of impatience and hunger and that need.

I could have drowned in that kiss. I could have devoured him. I could have thrown him over the hood of the car and found some way to make us both exhausted, sticky and sated. But I eased away from him. "Let's take this back to the hotel," I murmured, shakily.

He swallowed tightly and nodded. I eased him into the car seat and went around to my side. He stared straight ahead as I started the car, pulled out into the darkened, abandoned street and headed for the hotel.

We were all the way up to my room before I realized that we did not even have the most rudimentary essentials for this sort of play. Well, hell, I went out and bought a basketball, I can go out and pick up condoms and lube.

"Take a soak in some hot water," I told him, pointing toward the bath. "I'm going to run down to the drug store."

"That's okay. That's not necessary," he said, and there was a strange, urgent flush to his skin. "We'll be all right."

"No."

He surprised me with the swiftness of his movements, the force of his determination. He had me back against the wall in seconds, his mouth moving over my lips, chin, throat, while his hands started working at my sweats.

"Come on, Walter," he said, and that purr was back. "Let's just do it."

"If you've never done this, you could get hurt," I protested. "A virgin is a virgin, Mulder." I tried to push his hands away, but I had to admit, I liked what he was doing in there. I was harder than I had been in years.

"I'll be okay," he promised, pushing my sweats down, releasing my erection so that it bounced between us. He looked down, considering it almost lovingly.

He let one fingertip caress it from balls to glans. "That's quite impressive, sir," he said, starting to grin, but there was just a hint of something in his voice; fear? Dread? Hope?

I eased his hand away. "No, Mulder. I'm not going to play your game. There are plenty of things we can do just to satisfy our curiosity. If we want more, we'll go forward at a slow, practical pace. I won't let you use my desire for you to punish you, either." 

"You...desire me?" He seemed surprised.

I glanced down at my cock, still bobbing between us. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Is that..." he paused. "Is that all, sir?"

And then it hit me. It wasn't all. There was something else, something greater and deeper and overwhelming. I pulled him toward me and kissed him, softly. "No, that's not all, Mulder."

I could hear it break, whatever it was that shattered inside him. He pulled his mouth from mine, and rested his forehead against my shoulder, whispering something, over and over.

I turned to him. "What, Mulder? What is it?"

When he lifted his eyes they were overbright. "I don't deserve this," he said, and backed away from me. "I could have stopped him. I could have saved that woman. I don't deserve to be happy tonight." He stumbled toward the door.

I had to tug and tuck before I could get to him but I stopped him from going through the door. "You deserve it. You deserve kindness, tenderness, romance, love, whatever it is you need. You want it. You deserve it." He began to struggle against me. "You deserve it, Mulder," I said, getting an arm around his waist and holding him against me. "And I'm going to give it to you." With my free hand I stroked his hair. "I'm going to hold you, and take care of you, and do whatever it takes to get you to sleep tonight, and I'm doing it because you deserve it."

He struggled again, in a great display of futility. "Let me go, sir." Then he added, raggedly, "Please."

I kissed the back of his neck. "No. Tonight we are going to play the game my way." I sucked at his neck. The flesh was hot and tender and salty with perspiration. "Mulder, it's up to you. We can part ways right now and pretend none of this ever happened, or we do it my way. Which will it be?"

He tilted his head back, giving me more access to his throat, and he sighed.

"Your way," he conceded with a sigh, but I know I heard him add, oh, so softly, "This time."

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part II - Ground Rules  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Mulder and Skinner continue the relationship that began in "Same Game, Part I - Tip Off".  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: The action takes place immediately after "Tip Off". This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use.  
* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", and for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps".

* * *

Same Game: Part II - Ground Rules  
by Mik

Now, I would never have pegged my boss for a mother hen. Skinner's always been this big, bad assed guy, with his hand on his gun grip, prepared to pull me into his sites, but he turned into a grandmother on me that night.

Granted, a big grandmother, and one with a (surprisingly) sensuous touch. If I hadn't been hurting so bad on that basketball court, the way he was rubbing the inside of my thigh so lightly would have been enough to send me crawling all over him. And then, he picked me up like I was a stack of files and carried me over to a bench.

I've never been one to swoon over anyone, but that got me. Somehow, it's a blur to me now, we ended up in his hotel room, acting with intent. I confess I was scared shitless. I was expecting physical pain then, and the lovely joy of emotional pain to tide me over a day or two while I tried to figure our where our sick, little slasher might strike next. But, Grandmother wouldn't have me in any sort of pain. First he wouldn't give in to a very blatant attempt at spontaneous combustion, and then, he decided I'd get no sex at all 'til my wounds had been tended to.

If you ever want a mental picture of a sweet paradox, let me tell you about A.D. Walter Skinner on his knees beside his bath tub, sleeves of his sweatshirt pushed high up those tree branch forearms, washing my face. I feel compelled to insist that I was quite capable of washing my own face, I do it nearly every day now, but, he started with my knees, where gravel and dirt had bitten into the skin, and then over my stomach and up my chest, detouring over my shoulders. At that point, I was lulled into a state of complete tranquillity, and couldn't put up a single demurer when he swabbed that nice warm cloth over my sticky, sweaty face.

By the time I was out of the tub, dried and into a pair of sweats (he went to my room and got clean stuff for me!) he had gotten tea from room service, and aspirin from his dopp kit, and was making me a sleepytime cocktail. He shot me a glance as I opened the bathroom door. "Should you be on that leg, Mulder?" he asked, pouring tea from the little caudal.

"Well, I didn't find it convenient to leave it in the tub," I retorted and walked, gingerly, to the end of the bed.

"Here." He brought me a white, porcelain cup and saucer and two aspirins.

"A little herbal tea will relax you."

I gaped. I know I did. When did the Assistant Director of the FB Fucking I turn into the Editor of Lady's Home Journal?

I think he saw me from the corner of his eye. He straightened and became busy with something behind me. "My wife used to drink it at bed time when she had trouble sleeping."

Wife. Oh. Forgot about that little detail for just a moment. I popped aspirin expertly and took a tentative sip of something that smelled strongly of peppermint and something I couldn't identify. 

"That's chamomile," he said, turning down bedclothes, stacking pillows. "It will help you sleep."

"Sleep?" I turned to look at him, and I'm quite certain the word DISAPPOINTMENT was tattooed across my face in bold script with lots of cyphers and serifs.

"Yes, Agent Mulder, sleep." He came to the foot of the bed, and took the cup

from me. "You've been injured. You've-"

"Just a flesh wound!" I protested, adding, with a dreadful English accent,

"I've had worse."

He got it. I saw a little light of recognition dance through those...those amazing brown eyes!

"You've also been through a very difficult, emotionally draining day, on the heels of several days of long hours hard work and research," he continued after a moment. He looked down at the cup balanced between his big paws.

"We're contemplating something that could change our lives irrevocably. I, for one, will not make such a momentous decision without at least one good night's rest."

"But, I-"

He put one of those big paws over my mouth, held firm for a moment, and withdrew, with just a whisper of a caress to my cheek. "Tomorrow, Agent Mulder. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

I could see in those amazing eyes that there would be no argument. "Very well, Scarlett," I sneered, and made myself get to my feet. 

"Where are you going?" he asked as I reached the door.

I looked back at him. He was making two piles of pillows in that great big bed. "My room?"

He considered the edge of the sheet in his hand. "Is that what you prefer?" he asked quietly.

Was that disappointment in HIS voice? Was that insecurity that tightened around the corner of his eyes for a moment?

I turned and leaned against the wall. "I thought that's what you were telling me," I answered, quietly.

"No." He didn't look up. "I was only saying that we weren't going to take any further steps until we'd slept on it."

Further steps. He can even make sex sound like Bureau protocol. "What do you want me to do...sir?"

He turned his head just enough to look at me. "To get your butt in the bed."

He growled. When did I start getting hard for that growl? "Yes, sir," I returned smartly, and ran as fast as my twisted little knee could get me there.

He actually tucked me in, fussing around with pillows and bedclothes until I was quite snug, then he went through the room, shutting down lights, checking locks, putting his service piece in reach, and finally, with a sigh, shucking his sweats. In what seemed to me to be slow motion, he climbed into bed, and settled down near enough that I could feel his body heat, but not his body.

I stayed there, being still, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what in the hell I was doing, but not feeling any inclination not to do it.

I'd always been a little curious about it, I admit. I doubt there's a man out there who can honestly say he's never at least wondered about it. And there had been once or twice when some guy looked at me a certain way and it

did have a visceral effect on me. Hell, if I was totally honest, I'd have to say that rat bastard Alex Krycek had the prettiest eyes I've ever seen on a man...until tonight, that is.

I turned my head slightly, and felt those eyes on me in the darkness. They were as soft as his touch a moment before. "Yes...sir?" I whispered.

He was laying on his side, watching me in the semi-darkness. "Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you here?"

I felt a flush of panic come over me. "Because you said-"

"No." His voice was gentle. "Why are you here, with me?"

I rolled onto my side to face him. "Because I wanted to be."

"But you've never done this before."

"Neither have you," I countered.

"So why should we suddenly decide that we're going to change orientations and with each other?"

"Kismet?" I suggested.

"So help me, Mulder, if I get one more lame movie reference-"

"Okay, okay. I don't know. I mean, I know why I wanted to come here, but I'm not sure why I'm staying." Bullshit, Mulder, you know EXACTLY why you're staying. Because he promised to hold you and care for you and make you feel like you weren't the biggest screw up on the Federal Payroll....all right, second biggest. "First of all, I'm not all that sure we're changing orientations. Some people like their bread buttered on both sides..." I knew I was blushing. "Umm..."

"Bi-sexual, Mulder. I got that." His voice was curt, but softened unexpectedly. "I understand that. Why are we acting on it?"

"Because..." I closed my eyes. I was getting tired. Tired of so damned much.

"I'm not sure right now."

"Come here."

I inched closer.

"Here."

Suddenly, I was folded into this well of warmth, my cheek pressed against the wall of his chest, muscle hard, hairy enough to tickle, smelling faintly of sweat and maleness and maybe even some residue of cotton, his arms around my shoulders, his hands sliding down my back. This is why, I thought to myself.

I felt him chuckle beneath me. Did I say that out loud? Does it matter?

No. I closed my eyes and relaxed against him. His hands were soothing against my skin, as if smoothing away all my woes with the ease one smoothes away wrinkles in the sheets. His scent was filling me, and his muscles rippled slightly against my cheek. I'd been up against this body before, but never like this, never so much a part of him. I wanted to feel him, smell him, hear him, taste him. I let the tip of my tongue slip out and slide along one firm, defined pec. Salty, powerful, warm.

He reacted with a slight jerk, and tipped his head down to look at me.

I looked up, anxiously. Did I cross a line? Was that a further step?

Melted chocolate gaze pinning me in place, he lowered his head, slightly, and I felt his lips brush against mine. That was it. Whatever motives put me in that bed, that kiss sealed my fate. I was lost. I was his. No one ever managed to touch me so softly and so deeply with one simple gesture. He didn't merely kiss my mouth, he kissed my soul.

He must have felt me melt against him, because he worked a hand between us, and held it against my heart. With our lips still touching, he brushed the palm of his hand over my chest, making my heart change from a tarantella to a mambo in a flicker, and let a fingernail skim one of my nipples.

To my knowledge, nipples on a man are like udders on a bull, worthless.

However, I must at this point confess that he was well on his way to making me believe I was a cow. I think I made some kind of sound of encouragement, because he did it again, on the other side. Stunned, zinging, hungry, I moved in on his mouth, needing something, and not able to ask for it. My life defined in a moment; I need. But what is it I need?

He accepted my assault on his mouth, as his hand moved over me, my chest, shoulders, throat, belly. His touch was tentative, shy, as if he was exploring me. As it crept toward the waist of my sweats, I thrust toward him, trying to encourage him, trying to communicate permission to proceed, trying to get him to touch me.

He ignored me, moved his hand up my side, over my hip and down the small of my back. I pulled back, away from him, relinquishing his mouth. "Damn it,

Skinner," I hissed. "Just get to the point."

I felt him chuckle again, and found myself back on my back, him leaning over me. "You're so damn impatient, Mulder." He bent to suck lightly at my throat. "Sometimes the best part of the trip is the journey itself."

"Oh, great," I groaned, trying to rub myself against his hip. "You're going Zen on me." I sent my own hands roaming, and finding their target without hesitation, making him jerk slightly. Caressing his sac, I grinned up at him in the dark. "Want to see if Grasshopper can snatch a pebble from your hand?"

His teeth sank down, slightly, and that momentary pain was actually satisfying. I turned my head a bit to let him do it again, but he was pressing little kisses to the wound area. And that was even more satisfying.

"Mulder," he murmured, licking, sucking, biting and then licking his way down my throat to my collarbone. "Do you think you could leave popular culture out of our pillow talk?"

Pillow talk? He's so damned cute. "What?" I asked, turning back to him.

"You mean we can't discuss the merits of Star Trek TNG versus TOS while we're...we're..." I stopped. I couldn't actually say making love, and something wouldn't let me say fucking. Not to him. Not to my boss. Not to Granny Skinner. Not to this man who was sucking my soul out through my shoulder socket.

Suddenly, his fingers curled around the front of my sweats, catching me and my little friend by surprise. "No. Personally, I think Janeway is hot."

I groaned. "No, not Janeway. Please." I rocked my hips and he loosened his grip enough that I was actually rubbing myself within the circle of his fingers. "Please," I gasped.

Within a minute, my sweats were gone, with no small measure of help from me, despite my swollen, aching knee. He was on me, stretched out over me, incredible, solid heat, gellitine spread thickly to hold me in place. His hands were planted at either side of my shoulders, and his mouth was on mine, sucking, licking, biting, as he rubbed himself against me. His cock, which I already knew to be thick and well shaped, was insinuating itself into every sensation, the hard ridge of the head dragging down the shaft of mine and up again. His body, flattened against mine, provided a sanctuary for them; hot, heavy, intense friction.

I knew I wasn't going to last. It had been a long time since I'd had another body against me, and it had been years since I'd had someone climb inside my head at the same time. He was stroking my libido with every kiss, just as his cock stroked mine with every push of his hips.

He was making these wonderful noises; deep, back of the throat sounds that seemed dangerous and yet needful, an enraged and wounded bull, death at his heels, determined to take the toreador with him. Gore me, I wanted to shout.

I deserve it. Impale me on your horns and toss me to the ground. Trample me. Take. Me.

XXX

I felt him shift, fold upward, ease out of bed. He cast a furtive glance back at me, and I know he couldn't see that I watched him through narrowed eyes. A beautiful silhouette against the semi darkness, he limped toward the windows and parted the curtains slightly, to peer out, hip cocked, weight on his good knee. I had him in profile as he worried with one of his own. He was staring out, not at the pool, but at the heart of a killer.

A few hours ago, I made him scream. He spilled himself against me. And then, he collapsed, sobbing in exhaustion, into my arms. Now the demon has awakened again, and he's looking for Mulder.

Mulder. What the hell are you doing here? I wondered, watching him drag his fingers through his hair, and rub his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Bewitched boy, brilliant man, broken soul. What brought you to my bed? The need for pain. You think I didn't understand what you were whimpering as we rocked together? To be stabbed, gored, slain, destroyed? And then to whip yourself afterward for having enjoyed my touch.

Who did this to you? Who made you believe you deserved pain? Did you do this to yourself? Why? I sighed heavily and rolled out of the bed. You can't cure him, Walter, I told myself. You take him as he is, or leave him alone. You've taken on enough lost causes in your life. "What is it, Son?"

I asked, softly, a hand on his shoulder. I will not let you turn our feelings into an emotional cat o' nine tails. I will not let you make something so unexpected and passionate into a rack upon which you can stretch out your psyche.

He spared me a glance and continued his grim study of the eerie blue-green light of the pool area. "I can't believe you think Janeway is hot."

I laughed. I couldn't help myself. I slid my arm across his shoulder and drew him closer. He surprised me by letting me ease his head to mine. "Are you okay with this?" I asked softly.

"I'm very okay," he said. He lifted his head and looked up at me, studying me as if I was a crime scene. "I can't believe that..." he stopped.

I nudged him. "Rule Number Two. You have to finish sentences." 

His brow furrowed up. "Rules? We have rules?"

"I think we need some," I responded gravely.

His chin jutted out, defensively. "Why?"

"I've lived by rules my entire life, Mulder. I'm not going to abandon them now." I softened the words by drawing him back to me. "Especially given the dangers we're facing."

"I've bucked rules my entire life," Mulder sighed against me. "I don't know if I can stand being in a relationship where I could..." He stopped. His voice sounded as if his throat closed up.

"Mulder?" I prompted.

"I could lose you," he whispered.

"No. That's a rule, too. There is nothing you can do to lose me." I reached out and caught his chin, forcing his face up to mine. "Do you understand that? That's the most important rule."

For just a moment, moonlight broke the clouds and crossed the window, filled his eyes, revealed mist and fear. Then he nodded against my hand. "What was Rule number one?"

"No Popular-"

"-culture in bed," he finished with another nod and a laugh. Well, it was more like a snort. "Do I get to make any rules?"

"Of course," I said before I saw the wicked gleam in his eyes. "Within reason. I won't ever intentionally hurt you." The gleam faded. "And I won't dress up like Aunt Bea and feed you apple pie." 

"Rule number one, Skinner!" he crowed. "Rule number one."

I cuffed the back of his head. "We aren't in bed." I caught his wrist and pulled him back in that direction. "Rule number four. No 'Sir's, Skinners and Mulders. Not in bed."

He fussed at my grip. "I don't like being called Fox," he told me, flatly.

I released his hand. "I respect that. But I refuse to whisper endearments to Agent Mulder."

"Endearments?" His mouth twitched. "You?"

"Rule number five. Show some respect."

He pushed at my shoulders, sending us backward on the bed, him landing hard on my chest. "Rule number six, sweetheart. Fuck the rules." He kissed me.

Hard.

I wrapped my arms around him and rolled, so that I had him pinned beneath me.

"Respect, darling," I growled. "Or I will find ways to make you suffer."

He wriggled under me. "You just said-"

"I've got the collected works of John Denver on CD, my little muffin. I'll put you in a bubble bath and duct tape headphones to your ears."

For a moment, his mouth fell open, and his eyes widened. "Oh, God, you're so butch," he chuckled beneath me.

I could see him in the growing light. He wasn't quite smiling but his eyes had lost that vacant wounded stare that he wore when he came into the bar last night. That beautiful face looked years younger. He didn't have that normal ravaged look he got when he climbed into the head of a serial killer.

Could I have done that for him? I pulled an arm free to stroke his cheek and he turned against my hand, pressing himself against my touch. "Come back to bed, baby," I urged, and backed up, letting him scramble around to get under the bedclothes, lift them up, make room for me.

"Rule number eight," he mumbled, curling up against my side. "Don't call me 'baby' in front of Scully."

I kissed his head. What are you doing here, Mulder? I wondered yet again. I wasn't prepared for this. When I lost Sharon, I put away the need to have someone, hold someone. I'm at the summit of my life and dipping toward the valley and a final resting place. I don't need to bring someone else along for the ride.

I stroked his bare shoulder, feeling him drop back into slumber. And, of all the people in the world to hitch a ride, why is it him? Because he pays his own way, carries his own weight, knows the route, and can keep me awake in the midnight hour of the journey.

He shifted and sighed, and pulled a hand free to rub at the side of his mouth.

"Hey," I whispered softly. "You never finished that sentence." 

He tilted his head toward me, clearly almost asleep. "Wha...?"

"You said 'I can't believe that...' and stopped. What can't you believe?"

He shrugged and tried to snuggle down against me. "I dunno." He twitched.

"Can't remember."

I nudged him again. "Try. I want to know."

He sighed, heavily and spoke into my arm pit. "I can't believe you wanted me."

"Oh, believe it, baby," I murmured, stroking his hair. "Believe it." How long have I wanted you? Six years? Seven? Since the first time I wrestled you in a hallway? Since the first time I thought you had died? Since the first time I saw you, striding through the hallways of the Hoover, seemingly oblivious to the stares, whispers and rumors that persisted wherever you went? How long? Eternity, I think. "Believe it," I repeated softly.

"I want to," he said, on a faint sigh. "I always want to believe." 

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part III - Home Court Advantage  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Mulder and Skinner continue the relationship that began in "Same Game: Part I - Tip Off" and "Same Game: Part II Ground Rules". The Game has moved back to DC.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: The action takes place a few days after "Ground Rules". This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use.  
* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", and for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps".

* * *

Same Game: Part III - Home Court Advantage  
by Mik

He pushed the door open and stood back, looking at me, questioningly. I looked at him, thought about offering to let him carry me over the threshold and actually was smart enough to keep the crack to myself. I hitched my garment bag over my shoulder and stepped inside.

He'd made some changes since the last time I'd been here. Hung some pictures, put out some things that made it look like a person did more than hang his clothes, drink and sleep here. There was a book, open, face down on the sofa table, and I sneaked a peak at it as I came through. On The Road by Jack Kerouac. I smiled. So, there was a rebel, a member of the Lost Generation, under that starched shirt, and boring tie.

"You want a drink?" he offered, pulling my bag from my fingers. He sounded a little shy.

I shook my head. "Very low tolerance to alcohol. One drink and I'm able to lose all control and pounce on you." Get a grip, Mulder! At least take that lost puppy longing look off your face.

He smiled, but it was a nervous, jerky smile. We still weren't sure what we were doing. A few nights ago, in his hotel room had been the beginning of something amazing, but now, here we were, back in the real world, and neither of us were too sure of the etiquette. All of the rest of our 'getting to know you's' had been sidetracked by finding a killer before he killed again.

"Well, do you mind if I have one?"

The trouble was, even though we never got to spend another moment alone in the race to realize, stop and capture that arrogant asshole, there had been hours of torturous longing, smoldering looks, accidental contact. We were both incendiary devices with unstable triggers, and I for one, really, REALLY wanted to go off. "Wrong answer, A.D. Skinner," I scolded, following him to the bar. "You're supposed to say, 'Well, by all means, Agent Mulder, you must have a drink'."

He looked at me, startled. Startled perhaps by my proximity, or by the directness of my response. He splashed scotch into a glass and sipped. Then he smiled around the glass. "You'll forgive me if I prefer to be the one doing the pouncing."

Okay, my heart started beating again. No, it started pounding. "Are...are you planning to?" Damn it, Mulder, stop stammering.

He smiled a little more. "I'm considering it." He moved away from the bar, glass in hand and paused by his phone, looking down at the machine with the blinking light telling him he had fifteen messages waiting for him. His fingertips danced over a stack of mail. He glanced at his watch. "Why don't we go upstairs?"

Unexpectedly, my mouth went dry, but my hands got clammy. "Ohh....kay."

I looked up the stairs as if there was a noose at the top. Now that he had surrendered why did I regret pursuing this? Or did I? 

"Agent Mulder?"

Damn it, his voice was gentle. Why couldn't he bark a command, growl out an order?

I nodded. "Right. Bedroom." I started climbing the stairs.

"Agent Mulder."

I looked over my shoulder. "What happened to no Sirs, Skinners or Mulders in the bedroom?"

"Nothing," he answered levelly. "But, we aren't there, yet. And I think, perhaps, we won't be for a while. Come down here. We'll eat something...talk...there's a game on..."

I cocked a brow at him, a la Scully. "You mean, like getting to know one another? Like a date?"

He shrugged a shoulder. One big, rolling 'why not?' gesture. "Why are you always in a rush to get where you don't want to be?"

"Where I don't..." I stopped. I didn't have an answer.

"Finish the sentence," he reminded me.

"It's not that I don't want to be there." I came down a step or two. "It's just that it's something new, unknown, and if it's scary, I want to get it over with."

He looked at me as if faintly bewildered by my logic. "If it's scary, we shouldn't be going there."

I sighed at him, impatiently. "You missed your calling as a father," I snapped, coming down the last few steps, and stalled. Oh, my God, what did I just say to him?

His eyes were half closed, his mouth in that perpetual down-turn I was so familiar with.

Well, it was nice while it lasted, Mulder. I scooped up my garment bag from the back of the chair and took a turn toward the door.

"I'm sorry."

I stopped. No, I stalled. Like a car on a railroad track, with a train bearing down. I turned, and looked. "S-sorry?"

He was shaking his head, slowly, as he put his drink on the sofa table. Here comes the train. "I'm sorry, but I won't be a father substitute for you. If that's what you're looking for, you'd better keep looking."

Impact. "I don't want..." I stopped, my mouth working helplessly. Damn it, I'm the psychologist, I ought to know when someone is looking for a new Daddy. I certainly ought to know if it's me. "You're right. I guess I'm the one who owes you an apology."

He straightened, looked down at his hands for a second and then came toward me, extending one of those strong, yet gentle paws. "Good luck, Mulder," he said, quietly.

Destruction. I looked down at his hand. It read Goodbye. I looked up at his eyes. They read No Argument. I felt air being dragged out of me. I opened my mouth once, twice, and finally, on the third time, managed to get out a single word. "Why?"

His brows went up. He doesn't do the Spock like brow lift the way Scully does. Both go up, and wrinkle up his dome like a worried pup. Used to scare me when he did that, but at that moment, it was endearing, and something I felt I couldn't lose. "You don't think I can continue to work with you after this, do you?" he asked, far too calmly for my liking.

Not fair, not fair! I wanted to scream. Boy, I really am looking for a Daddy, after all. I swallowed, and took his hand, trying to be a man about it. "No, I suppose not. Thank you...sir."

His grip was warm, and lingering. As if HE didn't want to let go. That was okay. I let him hold my hand as long as he wanted, because it would be the last time we touched. Then, reluctantly, we both pulled away. "Um...I know we neither one will be discussing this with anyone," I added, shifting weight from my stiff knee to the other. "But, for what's it worth..." I stopped, shook my head and turned away. 

"Rule number two, Mulder."

I stopped, three steps from the door, from escape, from release. I didn't turn back. I sighed and said, "...it was good."

I never heard him move, I never sensed him coming, but suddenly I was against the door, spun around, in his arms, being devoured whole. And loving it. I let the garment bag fall to the floor and wound my arms around those massive shoulders. I had never in my life felt so completely consumed. His hands were everywhere, and where they weren't, his lips were. "You don't need a Daddy," he breathed against my throat.

"No," I agreed, almost helplessly.

"You need a lover."

"Yessss." It was all I could say.

He backed away from me. Those melted chocolate eyes were now molten lava.

"Upstairs," he said again. "Bedroom." He backed up another step. "Now."

I moved. I didn't even stop to pick up my bag. I had just been given a second invitation to Paradise, and those don't come along every day.

I had never been in the A.D.'s bedroom. It's not something one contemplates.

There are those who don't believe he has a bedroom, or that he sleeps at all. There are those he think he's a machine. Well, if he's a machine, he's a machine who likes creature comforts. His bedroom took the entire second floor, so it was open, and expansive, and the white on white color scheme only made it seem more vast. A huge bed, bedclothes already turned down neatly on one side, as if awaiting his return, a large recliner in one corner, with a good reading lamp, and a Nordictrac in the other. A white washed armoire hid either his casual clothes or a very large television and my fingers itched to go find out which. There were no prints or photos anywhere, which I found significant, and the only real color in the room was in a small book shelf near the recliner, and two rows of books that looked old and cherished.

He came in behind me, carrying his overnight bag. "Would you like a tour?" he asked, urging me forward, until I was at the foot of the bed. "That's the bed. That's the floor. Put your clothes down there and your butt up there."

I turned and grinned. "Radisson would love to have you working for them." I started tugging at my tie.

"Tomorrow night I'll put mints on the pillows," he said, unzipping his bag.

Tomorrow night. There's going to be a tomorrow night! I practically hummed as I tossed my tie to the floor and started on my buttons.

I knew it. He turned, looked at my tie disturbing the feng shui of his bedroom and collected it. He held out his hand and I shrugged out of my shirt and handed it to him. He folded it over his arm. Barechested, I felt a little overpowered by him. "This isn't a free show, you know," I told him, defensively.

He nodded and carried my things over to his recliner. Then, looking at me, very deliberately, he kicked off the Nunn Bushes, and began working on his own tie.

It was very erotic, undressing for one another. His shirt, that white cotton undershirt (who knew how sexy those things could be?), my slacks, his slacks, the sound of keys and change and belt buckles, my socks, his, my black watch plaid boxers with Pooh on them (don't laugh! They were a gift), his white, well fitted cotton briefs. And there we were, standing naked in the brilliant white of his bedroom. And without a clue.

Well, we both had some clue, clearly. We were both sporting the beginnings of fine erections. And we were both breathing hard. But we stood there, looking at each other's eyes. I could feel his eyelashes brush across my skin every time he blinked. I could feel his breath on me. I could almost hear the urgency that whispered in his brain. 

Finally, he came to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me very tenderly. I could feel his cock meet mine, as if duelists, touching swords before battle, and for a moment, I nearly missed the sweetness of his gift.

I opened my mouth, and accepted his words as he whispered them into me. "I love you."

Love? Where did that come from? Who asked for love? I didn't. I don't need it. People I love die. People I love get cancer or shot or abducted.

I started to shake, I know I did. Not this time. Please. Not this time.

"Fox?" His fingers slid from my face to my shoulders, trying to hold me up.

"Agent Mulder?"

I fixed on his words, his voice, his concerned frown. "Can't this just be about sex?" I asked him, begged him.

"No." He said it almost regretfully. "No, it can't be." He turned away from me and began to carefully collect my clothes. "And if that's all you want, you'd better go now."

"But, I-"

"No." He held out my shirt. " "I don't ever want another one night stand, Agent Mulder. I don't do 'just sex'. This is an amazing turning point in my life, and if I turn this way, it's a commitment. If you can't handle that, then this isn't the place for you. I won't be an experiment."

"But, I-"

"Please." He went to a louvered door in the wall, and opened it, pulling a black robe down from a hook "Just go." He slid into it, and covered himself as if pulling on chain mail. He looked up from the sash to find me there, still naked, at the foot of his bed, my shirt in my hands. "I think I've embarrassed both of us enough for an afternoon."

"But, I don't want to go."

"Agent Mulder." He said it in that very tired voice he gets when he talks to me. "Do I have to make it an order?"

"No...sir." I sat down at the foot of the bed and began fumbling around for my shorts. So this is what abject humiliation feels like. Funny, I thought I'd been exposed to it a thousand times, but nothing had ever felt this bad. To complete my mortification, I actually felt tears sting my eyes. Well, that's just great, Mulder. You've made an ass out of yourself, made a pass at your boss, and now you're bawling like a baby. Well, hell, what could be worse?

He could still kill me.

I sneaked a look up at him. He was staring at the Nordictrac as if he'd never seen one before. I put down my shorts, stood, drew a deep breath clear to my balls, and crossed that infinity that was the six feet between us.

Catching him mid-reverie, I slid my hands under his robe. "I don't want to go," I whispered against his ear. "I want to stay here. With you."

His skin was hot. And hard. And I wanted to feel every inch of it, but he caught my wrists and pulled them free. "I don't do 'just sex'."

"I don't do relationships," I answered, with a sad smile. "One of us is going to have to give."

"I think..." he said, meeting my eyes, creeping inside me.

"Rule number two, Skinner," I reminded him, gravely.

"I think, it will have to be you, this time."

XXX

This time. I remembered him saying that so softly in my hotel room. And I remembered wondering what I was trading for that concession. I saw the same wonder in his eyes as I backed him toward the bed. He was practically trembling as I guided him backward, into a prone position. He started to say something, and stopped, shaking his head. I couldn't invoke rule number two to finish a sentence he didn't even start. I dropped the robe and stretched out beside him. 

I ran an experimental fingertip from his collarbone to his navel. I had plenty of opportunity, over the years, to view the male body in various forms, but I had never had the luxury of one like this. It wasn't perfect, but it was exquisite in its flaws. Lean, and far more muscular than his well fitted suits would acknowledge, evenly pale gold, with the merest hint of hair along that trail I had followed. He was scarred; a testament to his quest. He was Don Quixote. And I would never be his Sancho, that would be Scully, but I was probably his donkey.

I was right about his sexuality. It simmered in him. It bubbled up under the veil of his eyelashes, in the purse of his lips as I caressed him. It stirred in his cock as I let my fingers dance down his side and over his thigh.

It was fascinating to me, his cock, his penis, his male member. Like him, lean, and long, thickly veined, with a proud, ever purpling crown, it rose up, shakily, searching for my touch. I'd never been this close, this intimate with one, and I wanted to examine it, explore it, taste it.

But, Don Quixote was on a new quest tonight, and this saber of his was tilted at a new windmill, me. So I stroked it, almost roughly, and he groaned against me. "This isn't just sex," I reiterated.

"No," he whispered back, groping, reaching, finding my cock, to match my movements.

I found his mouth again, forced my way inside. Again I tasted salt, and this time it was from his tears. "I want to make love to you," I said, licking my way up his cheek.

He groaned again in reply.

"I want to be inside you."

"Yes," he agreed, stupidly, drunk with need.

"I won't hurt you."

"Yes," he repeated.

"No." I pulled away from him. "Listen to me." I waited until his sleepy eyes opened and focused. "I won't hurt you."

He shrugged and gave me a very sweet, understanding smile. "You're bound to. It's the nature of the beast. We've never done this before. It's okay."

He released my cock to stroke my cheek-an even more powerful caress.

I caught his hand and held it against me. "No. I...I've done some reading on the subject. I bought...a book and...some other things we'll need."

He snorted in surprise. "You researched this?" He struggled away from me and sat up, rested his arm lazily on an upraised knee. "You went out and bought a book on gay sex? You?"

"Yes." His incredulous stare irritated me and I sat up, beside him. "It wasn't meant to be just sex, Mulder, and it wasn't meant to hurt you. That's what I was trying to prevent. I wanted...I wanted to do it right," I finished.

To my surprise, he wrapped his arms around me. "Oh, man, Walter, I do love you, you know."

The confession was so totally unexpected I thought I might burst into tears; tears of joy and relief. But, I didn't. I don't. I accepted his embrace, ruffled his hair, and growled, "Did you just call me Walter?"

"No Skinners, Mulders or Sirs in bed," he quoted with a grin. "And you broke your own rule. What sort of penalty do I get to mete out?" 

"No penalties," I told him firmly. "No paybacks. I'll give you something else in return." I thought about it. "A backrub?"

He smiled at me again. "A backrub? Really?" He caught one of my hands and considered my fingers as if he was analyzing alien footprints. "I'll bet you give a hell of a backrub."

"You'll find out. Lay down." I got up from the bed, went to my overnight bag and returned with a book, a tube of lubricant and some condoms. It was probably five years of my life laying in that neat little pile, for it cost me that much in nerve to make those purchases.

Mulder ignored the book and picked up the lubricant, read the ingredients, opened it, sniffed it, spilled a tiny drop onto his finger and tasted it.

Made a face and put it down. He examined the condoms, grinned to himself and then, almost hesitantly, picked up the book. It was pretty standard, as far as how-to books go, but it had a chapter on virginity which I felt was important. The spine was already broken to open to that chapter, and I had made some notes in the edges. He read these, cocking his head to one side to follow my script around the corner of a paragraph. "I like a man who is thorough in his research," he said, at last.

"You know we don't have to go all the way tonight," I offered, stroking the small of his back, longing to follow through to the rise of his ass. The women of the fifth floor were right. He had a great ass.

"'Go all the way'?" He looked over his shoulder, smirking at me. "Isn't that just a bit...high school?"

I smacked his great ass. But with affection.

He rolled over, sat up and caught my shoulders. "Listen to me, Walter Skinner, sir. I want to go 'all the way'. I want you to make love to me. I want you inside me. Can I make it any plainer? I've wanted this for a very long time, only I didn't know it." He shrugged and smiled, weakly. "I know, I know it sounds corny, but it's truth. You've been an unexpressed obsession of mine for years. If I wasn't finding reasons to hate you, I was finding reasons to believe in you. But, mostly, I was finding reasons for you to know that I existed. And I do. And you know it. And you love me." He pressed a quick kiss to the end of my nose. "And, as weird as it seems to me, I love you." 

"Then why..." I stopped. Don't ruin a good thing, Walter.

He was stretching out on his stomach but he flicked a look over his shoulder and held up two fingers.

I sighed. "Why did you want it to be just about sex?"

He lowered his hand, and then his eyes, and toyed with the box of condoms laying next to him. "Can we table that topic for a while?" he asked, quietly.

"Sure." I patted his bottom. "Backrub. Relax."

"Umm..."

"Backrub," I repeated firmly. "I want you relaxed."

He sighed. "Very well."

He was silent throughout the massage. But, I knew he was enjoying it. I could feel the steel coils of his stress and frustration melt under my fingers. Yet, I could also sense impatience, and a hunger that matched mine.

I was shocked to learn just how much I wanted him, and thought I ought to feel shame, but he was here, he was amenable and, for the moment, that was all the mattered.

Kneeling somewhat awestruck between his parted legs, as if before an altar of this new and amazing desire, I tried to remember the exact instructions for preparing someone for initial penetration, but all my brain could do was skip to the part where I would actually enter him. I made a mess with the lube, squirting it all over him, my hands, the bedclothes, but he cleverly refrained from laughing. He just shut his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.

I considered his opening, doubtfully. It seemed far too small to accomplish what we had planned, but I probed it, tentatively, and got an appreciative hiss from Mulder. One finger, stroking gently, got a soft moan, and a slight rocking of his hips. Two fingers got a different sort of moan, and I panicked.

The book lay open near where his head rested on his folded arms, and I strained to read the tiny print without my glasses. Glasses. They were sitting, within reach, on the bedside table, if I could just lean over and...

"Umm...I don't think you're suppose to achieve penetration through my hip with your elbow," he drawled.

I looked down. He was wincing. I straightened, but with my glasses in one too slick hand. Trying to put them on with one hand, I felt Mulder roll slightly to one side.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. He reached up, pulled the glasses off and put them back on the bedside table. Then he picked up the book. "When sex becomes homework, I don't want to do it anymore." He threw it across the room. "Now." He caught my free hand and tugged, rolling expertly under me as I came down, my cock nestling between his over slicked cheeks. "I subscribe to the Nike theory, Walter," he whispered. "Just do it."

Hours later, even though he was quiet against me I knew he was still awake. I worried that, despite all my precautions, I might have hurt him. I stroked his shoulder, gently. "Are you all right?"

I felt him sigh. "Fine."

"Rule number nine. No lying."

I felt him force a chuckle. "In that case, we're really only at rule number eight. I skipped one."

"Are you all right?" I repeated.

"You called me Fox."

"When?"

"Earlier. When you...ummm...you know...came."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right." He shrugged, jerkily. "It was just weird to hear a man say my name. You did it once before, years ago, when I first started working for you. You were probably the first person to make it sound like a name, instead of...a profanity. My dad used to sort of bark out my name, the way someone else would swear. And my mother always made it sound like a sigh of disappointment."

"I won't do that again," I promised, lifting my hand to caress his face. "I could call you William," I offered.

"Oh, no, that's worse. That's his name." He turned slightly in my arms and I could tell he was grinning. "Besides, when we go to the gay clubs in Aruba, you don't want them calling us Wally and Willie, do you?"

"God forbid!" I said fervently. "And who says we're going to gay clubs in Aruba, anyway?"

He twisted his head slightly, and I could see a wounded pout in profile.

"You mean we're not? Don't I get anything out of this?"

"I seem to recall you getting something out of this," I reminded him, indignantly. "Twice."

"Yeah." He sounded slightly awestruck. "I've never come twice so close together before. I may have to call in sick tomorrow."

"Well, I don't know," I said, pretending to give it thought, even as I envisioned an entire day with him in my bed. "You'd have to get it cleared by your boss and you know how he is. He's a pretty big-" 

"-prick?" he offered, and rubbed at his backside. "Don't I know it," he said with a wicked little chuckle.

I gathered him against me, and held him. "Are you ready to answer the question?"

He was quiet for a long while. "Everyone I love I lose," he said softly.

"That won't happen with me, Fox," I promised, gently.

"How do you know? Can you prove it to me?" He twisted around, catching my shoulder. "Can you give me a guarantee?"

"No," I answered, evenly. "You'll just have to trust me."

"Ha," he said, falling onto his back, heavily. "Don't you know my motto?"

"I want to believe?" I suggested.

I felt his narrowed gaze slash at me. "Trust no one."

I shook my head. "No, Mulder. This time you've got someone you can trust.

You can trust me."

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part IV- All Tied Up  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Mulder and Skinner continue the relationship that began in "Same Game: Part I - Tip Off", "Same Game: Part II Ground Rules" and "Same Game: Part III: Home Court Advantage". Mulder confronts his true enemy. We find out why the rule book may sometimes be unnecessary.  
FEEDBACK - Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.   
* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", and for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps".

* * *

Same Game: Part IV- All Tied Up  
by Mik

My friend, my enemy, my savior. How to describe him? Known from the beginning, always there, sometimes within reach, sometimes only within roar, but there. There have been times when I sought to master him. There have been times when I prayed for his total consumption of me. Foreboding, shapeless, black even in darkness, deeper than the biggest holes in space, with red, hungry eyes. I have known him all my life.

When I was a child, I called him my dangerous darkness. I could see him in the corner of my eye before my father could strike. As a jaded adolescent, I jeeringly referred to him as DD, some sort of crony, someone to hang out with when the rest of reality got too real. Then I grew up, I studied, I learned other names for him, but I think I still see him as my dangerous darkness.

He was here tonight. I've been looking for him for days, and he came tonight. I made a mistake, something that I needed to pay for, and tonight he came to collect. That first swipe of his claws, however, came unexpectedly, when Skinner told me we couldn't work together anymore. The second, when he told me it couldn't be a one night stand.

The third time, I was prepared for him. Splayed out on Skinner's bed like a sacrifice, feeling him work his way into me, I heard the pad of paws in my jungle and I waited, almost joyously, for him to pounce. Despite all of the man's study and diligence, it hurt. And I couldn't get him to understand that it was right that it should. The sensation of being entered that way was nothing like I had expected, nothing like entering a woman. There was no smooth glide. It was like being packed full of clay, and then he moved, and my ass became his kiln. He was suddenly glazed and hard and moving and I was burning and purified and my dangerous darkness was finally within my reach, red eyes glowing, white claws gleaming.

Then Skinner did something, moved somehow, shifted some way, and everything changed. A new pain, or perhaps the painful void when pain is removed, held out to me, white in contrast, brilliant white, blinding white. Not pain. No pain ever felt this exquisite. This, Mr. Mulder, is pleasure. Acquaint yourself. And I did. Blindly, faithlessly, I turned away from my old friend, and reached out toward this snow white shade. With a bellow, he turned away. My perfidy was complete when I reached for this specter not once but twice.

And the specter knew me, called my name. Fox.

I laid there for a long time after I felt him fall asleep. He had promised me that I could trust him and I wanted to. After all, you have to trust a man who can make your ass throb to the rhythm of his heartbeat. You have to trust a man who can make you cry like a baby when you come. You have to trust a man who has been known to work for...

I stopped thinking. I laid there, listening to his even breathing, and searched for another sound. Would I hear the footfall come through the darkness for me, now? No, nothing but silence beyond his breath and the traffic outside.

Finally, I inched away from him. The taste of sleeping cradled in his arms was too sweet and I'd been a glutton twice already. That first night, in his hotel room, we'd slept together, after, and I woke, held against him, feeling almost...cherished. Tonight he had pulled me back against him, and molded his body around mine, as if to protect me from the world. It scares me when I feel poetic, and his nearness had me thinking in odes all night.

At the edge of the bed, I looked back at him. Look at that man. A gentle, slumbering giant. Hardly the monster that gave me such grief for so many years. That half smile on his face made him almost...goofy is the word that comes to mind but in an endearing way. His lovemaking (and yes, I'd have to call it that, sex would be too mechanical for what we did), was an odd blend of tenderness and technique. Despite the fact that it was a desire to rendezvous with my dangerous darkness that brought me to this bed, I must admit gratification in knowing he was gratified. Now, then, how the hell do I get out of here?

I stood, and stretched, and winced. Yes, I was good and sore, but the pain didn't have the familiarity I expected. This wasn't a pain I wanted to savor. No, I wanted this pain over, so that I could have the pleasure again.

That scared me.

I limped to the bathroom, made the rounds, noted with some measure of satisfaction that blood had been spilled, and then felt my way downstairs. I didn't want to turn on any lights, and I couldn't turn on the television, so I liberated a small portion of his scotch, picked up On The Road and took it to the window, to read by the street light.

When did I feel eyes on me? I'm not sure. The glass was empty, and I had moved past his place in the book, so it may have been some time later.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the page deliberately, I tried to plan my course of action.

"Can't sleep?"

I admit, I didn't expect him to take action first and it startled me. I nearly lost his place in the book. I looked up at him. I know my jaw fell open slightly and I experienced an unexpected, albeit brief, wave of lust.

Still naked, he stood at the penultimate step, hand braced against the wall, eyes fixed on me. If David had been made of bronze instead of marble, and had been to Vietnam, I thought. Well, no, my memory of Michelangelo's statue was that he was not as well endowed. "Uh...no," I said, stupidly. "I don't...usually."

"Want some tea?"

Oh, no, Grandmother Skinner, don't put that image in my head! "Uh...no I just stole some of your scotch." I held up the empty glass. 

"Are you all right?"

Something...something in his voice gave me a little hint of pain, like a fish hook in my heart, and I turned toward it. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine." I came away from the window, put the glass on the bar and carefully laid his book back the way I found it. "You should go back to bed. We have to be up in a couple of hours."

"No. We're calling out today, remember?" He held his hand out, inviting me into his space, his embrace, drawing me back to his bed. "And besides, if we weren't, the same would hold true for you, wouldn't it?"

I let myself be pulled along his side, back up those stairs. "No, I'm used to going into work with no sleep."

"And you think I've never wrestled with insomnia? Or pulled an all nighter doing research or on a stake out? What kind of wuss do you think I am, Mulder?"

"Wuss is not a word I would associate with you, ssss..." I stopped. Sir?

Skinner? Walter? What?

"Walter," he said, and damn it, his voice was kind again. "It's okay to call me Walter, here."

"Okay." It was all I could think to say. And there was that enormous bed, bedclothes laid back as if he had only just turned them down, inviting me again.

He hesitated. "Are you sure you're all right? The book said that-" 

"Walter, Walter, please. I'm okay." I tried to laugh. "Really. It's not that. I just don't sleep very well."

He smiled at me. An honest to God smile. "Well, come back to bed and keep me company, because tonight I can."

Oh, I think I melted about then. Stood there in my own puddle, watching what a few random shifts in muscle could do to a face, to an image, to a belief. I never thought about a man as beautiful, but that smile, those sleepy eyes without the wire rims...wow. I actually felt my breath catch.

I waited until he was settled into place, and then carefully eased down beside him. He wrapped one of those monster arms around me and pulled me in close to him. I swear he actually kissed the top of my head. His monster arm became a rope, tied around my psyche. I wanted to be here. For the first time in a long time, I wanted to take the risk, be close to someone.

"Relax, Mulder," he murmured, sleepily and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

"You're vibrating, you're so tense."

"Uh...I don't do relax well," I answered and held my breath. Maybe he would fall asleep quickly and I could escape before the rope tightened and I could no longer escape.

"Shh," he whispered. With his other hand, he stroked my cheek. "You can do it."

I closed my eyes, and let my forehead rest against his shoulder. I could smell him, he was filling me again, but this time with the effluvium of his passion. It was dizzying. I found myself struggling to keep conscious. I had to get away.

What are you afraid of, Mulder? That you'll enjoy this reorientation of your personal beliefs? Too late for that, I fear. You tasted sin and absolution all in one kiss. You'll never be satisfied with anyone else, male or female.

Are you afraid that people will mock you for yearning after another man? How could that be worse than being mocked for believing extraterrestrial life? How can it be worse than being mocked for believing your sister was abducted as part of a major government conspiracy? What is it, really, Mulder? Are you afraid you'll never face your dangerous darkness again?

I opened my eyes with a jerk, and listened for the sound of that familiar hiss. No, nothing but the sound of deep, even breathing. He won't come now, I told myself. Not with Skinner here. Skinner will keep watch. My eyes slipped closed again and in my own darkness, I searched for red, glowing eyes. All I found was the memory of warm, chocolate eyes.

XXX

I'm not sure what woke me. Not my alarm. And not the familiar loneliness of my bed. Yet, I was disappointed to find myself alone. Last night, I held him, let him hold me, possessed his body in trade for my soul. And, now, he's gone. I'm not surprised. I told him I didn't want a one night stand. I told him I didn't want an experiment. I believed him when he said he wanted to stay, even though I knew he'd be gone before dawn. I'm surprised he stayed as long as he did.

At two in the morning, I found him downstairs, nursing a couple of fingers of scotch, and reading Jack Kerouac by street lamp. I can't believe how elegant he was, standing there, one long line of careless grace. I wanted to come across the room, gather him up and hold him, but he reminded me of a wild horse my father and I came across when I was a kid. I got close enough that the beautiful thing looked me right in the eye, then tossed his head and raced away. I was forever marked by that look, though I never saw the horse again. I knew I couldn't get that close to Mulder. Not even when making love. There was a part of him always tensed to race away into the foothills, never to be seen again.

Sadly, I rolled away from the pillow he had slept on. I wanted to hold it, embrace it, inhale his scent from it. But that would bespeak a sentimentality I'm not willing to allow myself at this stage in my life. A tiny measure of sentimentality brought him into my bed last night, any more would bring him too deep into my heart to be removed without a knife.

Wounded, saddened, shrugging on my robe, I went downstairs to start coffee, only to be assaulted by the aroma of same. I went to the kitchen door and stared. That long line of careless grace was bent at the middle, feet planted slightly apart, elbows on the kitchen counter, chin in hand, hips rocking slightly to a tune only he heard. His ass was round and ripe and I wanted to catch it in both hands and devour it.

"Mulder, you're in the kitchen naked," I blurted out, for lack of anything else to say in my great relief to see him.

He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on a book propped on the counter top. "Yeah, it's the damnedest thing. I keep popping up naked everywhere.

A little while ago I was naked in your living room. Before that I was naked in your bathroom." He shrugged. "It's an X file."

I came into the kitchen, and slid my hand over one of those perfect semi-circles of flesh. "What are you reading?"

"Your cookbook," he answered, still swaying. This close, I could hear the tuneless humming.

I bit into his shoulder, softly, wondering 'Why cook? I'll simply feast on you'. "Oh? What are you thinking of preparing?"

Mulder pressed back just enough to create contact with most of my body.

"Waffles," he said, his eyes never leaving the page.

"Waffles? I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't," he assured me, shrugging. "But, how hard can it be?" 

I reached past him and pushed the cookbook shut. "No. I like my housekeeper. She'd quit after you attempted waffles." I took the cookbook back to its place on the bookshelf over the refrigerator. 

He looked over his shoulder at me. "It's nice to see you, this morning, too." He pulled open a cupboard. "What some coffee?"

I sent a glance toward the pot. "Depends," I answered carefully. "Have you ever made coffee before?"

He sighed at me. "I've been a bachelor for a while, too, you know." He reached for the pot.

I stayed his hand. "Answer the question."

"Well." He looked at the mug in his hand. "Your pot's a little different from mine."

"Stand back, Mulder." I took the cup from him, poured and sniffed tentatively. "Not bad."

"See?"

"IF I was in the Navy, and IF I was on sub duty, and IF it was in the Antarctic." I poured the entire pot down the sink.

"Don't hold back, Walter."

I slid a hand around his neck and gave him an affectionate little squeeze.

"Thanks for trying."

"Huh." He turned toward my bulletin board, and considered the calendar I had tacked there, reminding me of dentist appointments, and car maintenance, and a seminar in New York. "Helluva social life you've got here, Walter."

"Oh, I keep the date book in the safe," I answered, filling the carafe with filtered water from the fridge.

"In asbestos, no doubt." He was still humming faintly, still swaying.

"No doubt." I took the bag of coffee beans from the freezer and measured some into the grinder. "Would you like an omelet?"

He didn't look at me, although he did flinch slightly as I started grinding the beans. "Can YOU cook?"

"Some," I admitted as I spooned coffee into the basket. "Casseroles, omelets, one pan things."

"Huh." He fingered a photograph of an old Marine buddy tacked next to the calendar. "Who's this?"

A little flicker of pain, a reminder of greater pain in days long gone.

"Friend a mine," I answered stiffly. I could feel Mulder's eyes come around, questioningly, but not quite to me. I flipped the switch. "Knew him in the Corps. He died recently."

"Oh." He turned to me, finally, and there was a depth of compassion in his eyes I didn't think Mulder was capable of feeling. "I'm so sorry."

I shrugged. "Yeah. It's a damn shame." I knew my voice was rough with feeling. "The good ones always die young."

"Which explains why I'm still around," Mulder answered with a chuckle.

Bless Mulder, making a joke out of something so painful. I let my eyes fall over him, incredulous. Here he was, naked, in my kitchen. Hell, it WAS an X-file. "Are you okay?" I asked him, quietly.

His brows pulled together slightly. He nodded, slowly. "You know...I think I am." His eyes came to mine. "You?"

"It was pretty fantastic, Mulder," I admitted.

His nose twitched. "Not bad for sex, huh?"

"No." I reached for him, pulled him close enough to let him wind his arms into my robe. "Not sex. More."

"So...what are we doing here?" he asked, his voice muffled into the shoulder of my robe.

"Dancing?" I suggested again, helplessly.

I felt his shoulders move. I think he was laughing. "Okay, but next time I get to lead."

I reached down and tilted his head up to look into his eyes. "Seriously?"

He was still frowning, but I saw something fall into place in there. "Oh, I meant...well, yeah, I think so."

I felt something in me fall out of place. My gut tightened. It hadn't been much of a leap to be willing to take him, enter him, make love to him. But, to give him the lead, let him take me? But, for those eyes, that face, the sounds he made last night? I drew a tight breath. "Okay."

"That's fair." He pulled away from me, sent his eyes over my face, and impulsively, slid his hand up, over my cheek and then the top of my head.

"Smooth. I always wondered."

I smacked his butt, affectionately. "Go get dressed, will you? You're very distracting like that."

"Thank you." He stopped at the door. "I think. By the way..."

"Yes?"

"Who won the game the other night?"

I tried to remember who was ahead before we ended up in each other's arms.

"I don't remember. What do you think?"

"I think..." His tongue darted out, went over his bottom lip, and disappeared

again. "I think we both won."

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part V - Back in Play  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Mulder and Skinner continue the relationship that began in "Same Game: Part I - Tip Off", "Same Game: Part II Ground Rules" "Same Game: Part III: Home Court Advantage" and "Same Game IV - All Tied Up". Once the players are back on the job, will the game play the same?  
FEEDBACK - Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.   
* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with the characters from "What You Want", and for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps".  


* * *

Same Game V - Back in Play  
by Mik

Standing beside my car, down in the bowels of the Hoover, I looked off toward the bank of elevators. For the first time in all the years I've worked for the Bureau, I was actually nervous about going upstairs to my office.

I never take a day off, unless it's to be in the hospital. I actually called in ill. What was even more amazing is that he did. We're going to claim we both had food poisoning.

We spent the day together. It seems impossible to say this, but the guy's fun to be with. He's no wild party guy, but he's easy and comfortable. We rented a couple of movies, and sprawled on the sofa, eating things guaranteed to cause food poisoning. At one point, he pulled my head into his lap, and I know I drifted off there, completely content. And later woke, feeling his thoughtful frown on me.

"You slept," he said, almost incredulous.

"Yeah." I sat up, rubbed my hand over my eyes. "Sorry."

"It's all right." He smiled and again I felt myself turning to water. "It's good to see you rest."

"Thanks." I groped for my watch, left on the sofa table. "I'd better get going. By the way, who won the war?"

"Oh, the good guys." He frowned at me. "Why do you have to go? I thought you were going to...stay," he finished.

"Are you kidding? I called in sick today. Talk about an X File." I stretched and scratched. "Scully will be leaving the Hoover at five oh one.

At five forty six she'll be at my door, assuming she doesn't get caught for her speeding."

"Call her," he suggested, his mouth curling up in what could almost be an impish grin. "Stall the inevitable."

"And say what?" I cocked a brow at him. "I'm not really sick. I'm having a sleepover at my boss's house?" Although, the idea of staying another night...

Impulsively, I pressed a kiss to that mouth. "I really have to go."

He caught me, a paw to the back of the neck and pulled me back against him.

The kiss I got in return was enough to convince me that Scully needed the practice searching for a missing field agent.

But, now I was going to have to face her, explain why I called in sick, why, when she got to my apartment she found neither my lifeless body, nor my car, gun, badge or cell phone. Believe me, a Scully interrogation is never any picnic, but this one was going to be a bread line in Triblinka-on a cold, rainy Friday, under enemy fire. 

I swallowed tightly and shifted awkwardly. I have to admit I was a little tender in certain areas. And no, not just my ass. There was another part of me that had been penetrated and was a little raw...something...I don't know, if I was the corny, romantic type, I'd say my heart.

I was relieved not to find Scully in the office when I came in, but I could hear the little click-click of her heels in the hallway and knew I was about to face the inquisition. I dumped my coat on the rack and went to my desk, considered my battered, rock hard chair and elected to stand and pretend I was perusing my shelves for something. Might as well stall sitting down as long as possible. Either that or go get the cushion I used driving in.

The door pushed open. "Well, congratulations, Mulder," I heard her drawl.

"You have apparently managed yet another miraculous resurrection." 

I looked over at her, trying to assume a pose of utmost innocence. "What do you mean, Scully? It was just a touch of food poisoning." 

Well, that was a mistake. Scully knows me too well. Innocence on my part, no matter how righteous, is a neon arrow pointing at my guilt. She did her patented Scully brow arch and Scully lip purse and brought her bag to her desk. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her posture, her movements all said, 'Uh huh. Pull the other one.'

"I'm telling you," I insisted, with the patented Mulder whine, "it was food poisoning. Ask Skinner. He was there."

She jerked around to look at me. "He was out ill yesterday."

"See?" I pointed at her. "We went for a beer after we got in the other night, and ended up eating chili dogs. Mistake." I shook my head, trying to look rueful. "Big mistake."

She looked up, over the rim of glasses she was just sliding into place.

"You? Went for a beer with Skinner?"

"Yeah." I watched her. "So?"

"You." She pulled the glasses down and pointed them at me. "Went for a beer."

"I do it all the time," I insisted.

"With the Assistant Director," she finished.

"Scully..." I shrugged. "It seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"To give him food poisoning?"

"Oh, thanks, Scully. You know, that really wasn't on the agenda." 

She came to my desk, looked up at me, and sighed. "Are you sure you should

be here, Mulder? You don't look very well."

"Huh. Thanks again." I turned and pulled my chair out, hoping she would look away and not see me wince when part of my anatomy, which recently made repeated contact with Skinner's anatomy, made contact with that chair.

She kept watching me. So I hovered, ass half way down to the chair. Scully, haven't you got a coat to hang, or a cup of coffee to retrieve or something?

Check your make up, damn it, and let me get this over with. "What?"

"You look...strange."

Oh, shit. She's figured it out. I dry swallowed and tried to come up with plausible denial. "Stranger than usual, Scully?"

She nodded. "Considering you just spent a week on a VCS case. Usually you come back looking like the Night of The Living Dead." 

"Scully, you flatter me. That was a classic."

"This time you look...relaxed." Those miss-no-detail-baby blues darted over me again. You don't look well, but you do look relaxed." 

"Well, keep in mind I spent a day worshipping at the porcelain altar. I'm sure that helped." Look over there, Scully. A pony!

I swear it actually happened. I was saved by the bell. Or the chirp, rather, of my desk phone. I reached for it and she turned to her purse.

"Mulder," I said and started to settle down into the chair. Then I came right back out of it. "Right there," I promised. "Come on, Scully. We've been summoned." I snatched my jacket from the hook and held the door open for her. He's calling for us. I haven't been out of his house four hours and he wants to see me again. I dragged my fingers through my hair as we waited for the elevator.

Scully slanted me a glance. "Mulder, you're primping?"

I pulled my hand down with a jerk. "Am not," I retorted.

She reached up, and quite lovingly, straightened my tie. "I don't care how neat you look, I don't think he's going to forgive you for taking him out for beer and ptomaine."

I shrugged. "It was worth a try."

I felt my breath hitching with expectation as we came through the anteroom.

I've been in this outer office a thousand times, for one purpose or another, usually for a reaming, and not the kind I had enjoyed night before last.

This room had not changed in all those thousand times, yet today it seemed like a mystical place, a shrine. I was almost tempted to genuflect in Kim's direction.

She nodded us in. That massive door swung open, and there we were, in the holy of holies. He was behind his desk, looking...the same. Same white shirt, same conservative tie, same broad shoulders, same gleaming dome. Same set to those full, talented lips, same depth to those warm, knowing eyes. "Agents," he said, in that same, reserved tone. And I, drawing breath for courage, lowered myself into my same chair, watching, waiting for some sign that things were no longer the same. I think I wanted him to sprout wings and rise from his desk with golden light shimmering around him.

"How are you feeling, sir?" Scully asked, smoothing her hem down over her knees the same way she always did.

"Better. I...ah...ate something that disagreed with me."

I wanted to look at him, but instead glanced away, and snickered, "Frequently."

"What was that, Agent Mulder?" he demanded.

I jerked my eyes back to him. There was a hint of warning there. "Nothing.

Sorry. I...I hope you're feeling better, now, sir." I'm going to make you feel great in about eight hours, I promised him silently. 

There was no indication that he heard, felt or understood. "I'm sure a good night's rest and I'll be fine," he answered and turned back toward Scully.

Thunk. That was my heart hitting the floor. "I'm sure," I agreed, sullenly. 

"Agent Scully, you got the pathology results I forwarded?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think you can have a forensic analysis ready in time for this bastard's hearing, next week?" How could he keep his voice so cool, so unaffected? Damn it, I was practically drooling, and he was behaving as if we had never been properly introduced. Well, he warned me. He said work had to go on as if nothing had changed. The ball was again in play and he was moving down court without looking back.

Scully gave him a sharp, efficient nod. "I think so, sir."

His eyes came to me, and I swear I straightened up like a teacher's pet.

"And you, Agent Mulder. Administration appears to finally appreciate the toll these sorts of cases take on you. They've approved some ETO for you.

Today, tomorrow, Friday. That should give you a nice long weekend." He pushed papers at me. "Enjoy some time for yourself. Get out of town for a while." He looked at me meaningfully. "Relax."

I stiffened as I reached for the papers. So that's it, huh? What happened to 'I want commitment'? What happened to 'No more one night stands'?

"That's a good idea, sir," I said, rigidly. "I think I'll do that."

"Excellent." His fingertips stayed at the top of the page, toying with me.

"Where do you think you'll go?"

"I don't know," I answered, petulant. "I'll think of something." I tugged the papers away, and folded them carefully, rising slowly, determined not to let him see the pain he had caused me, either in body, which would heal, or my trust, which would not.

"I can't believe it," Scully whispered, nodding at Kim as we left the office.

"Skinner getting you some time off right the middle of all these terrorist threats."

"Me, either," I said, flatly. I've been kissed off before, and it's never pleasant but that...shit, I would have preferred him to pull out his service weapon and put one right between my eyes. Well, at least I got a long weekend out of the deal. I supposed that's the male equivalent of roses.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, and believe it or not, there was a note of envy in her voice. Oh, Scully, if you only knew... 

"I don't know." I tugged at my tie as we reached the elevator. What the

hell, I'm off duty, dress code be damned. "Maybe go up to the Vineyard."

"To see your mother?" Scully smiled. "That will be nice."

My mother? Oh, sure, that would make it complete. Kicked in the gut by him and flailed alive by her? "No, I was thinking about the summer place. It's a mess. Maybe I'll go up and assess the damage and get some contractors in to paint and stuff. It's time to sell it." Or maybe I'll just hide behind the shuttered windows, among the shrouded furniture and echoes that haunt the place.

"Mulder?"

I looked down at her, resenting her intrusion into my melancholy. "What?"

"You sighed just now. Maybe you ought to just stay home and take it easy."

I shook my head. "No, I need to be busy." Liar. You just don't need to be in town, where you might be tempted to drive past his place at night, and watch lights go on and off, like a love sick teenager. I wonder if Calcutta would be far enough away?

The phone was ringing when we came into the office, but I ignored it. That's what voicemail is for, right? I picked up my keys and briefcase, and grabbed my coat from the hook. Scully tossed me a pointed look, but I pretended to ignore her, and kept going, slamming the door on my way out.

Bastard. I trusted you!

XXX

It's amazing how much you can hide from yourself, if left to your own devices. Wandering around that musty, cluttered house, all the memories, good and bad, from childhood seemed to assail me. There wasn't a single room that didn't have ghosts and each one cranked my anger up another notch. For a while I was angry at Them, the people in the gray, the ones who took my sister, the ones who corrupted my father, broke my mother, murdered whatever Fox Mulder started out to be.

Eventually, after unearthing some of my father's pottage (Jim Beam had always been his best friend), my anger shifted to better defined shapes; my father for dying without revealing the truth, my mother for leaving me, or for never being with me, Samantha for abandoning me, abandoning me twice, Scully for her doubts, and me for my beliefs.

Me. I became the focal point of my anger by the third day. I was foolish, worse than foolish, stupid. Naïve, blind, easily lead down those paths I wanted to go anyway. I deserved to be the joke of the Bureau for wanting to believe. Finally, too tired to rant, too tired to continue my hunt for something to hold onto, I threw the sheets back from the sofa in the living room and stretched out, shut my eyes and opened my ears, and started listening. Would he come? Or had I driven him away? Where were those glowing red eyes now? Where were the white claws with the sting I needed to feel real again?

Listening for the stealth in a jungle, I never heard anything else, but I felt my heart quicken, my senses tense like wire, I almost smiled, rejoicing. 

He was here, I felt him, I knew it. My old friend had forgiven me and would not abandon me in my need. I laid still, waiting, shifting my hands to my sides, exposing my chest, my throat, longing for one final swipe of his fatal paw.

It came to me, clamping over my mouth, pinning my arms to my sides, holding me down so that I could not fight back, couldn't struggle, couldn't break away. My dangerous darkness hadn't come to claim me, but sent a corporeal emissary in his stead.

XXX

It wasn't what I expected. It certainly wasn't what I wanted to see. Even seeing it, I didn't want to believe it. When I passed that Leave Request to him, I thought I'd see some devilish gleam in his eye, some lewd suggestion barely stifled behind those incredible lips, but he merely took the paperwork and left. At first, I was disappointed, then I told myself he was merely exercising discretion for a change, and I was proud of him.

Then I rang his office, to offer him a suggestion of my own. He did not answer. Scully did, eventually, telling me he had already left.

I rushed through the day's work, believing that he would just KNOW where I wanted him to be, where I wanted him to spend his leave. I'm sure the local ER's reported dozens of heart attacks caused by the shock of Walter S. Skinner being one of the first people out the doors at the close of business that day.

I'm equally sure I broke laws getting home, but believing that the end, finding Mulder lounging in front of my television, or curled up in my bed, certainly justified the means. He was neither.

The disappointment that washed over me was unexpected and deep. I expected him gone when I woke up the next morning, and sent thanks to whatever deities that might be listening when I found him in my kitchen. I didn't expect him to spend the entire day with me, but he did. We never did make love again, but we experimented with the concept of goofing off, one that was alien to both of us. To me, it was enough that he was in reach, comfortable under my caress, affectionate in a shy, reserved way, like a child who was unaccustomed to cuddling. The cracking-wise he annoyed me with as an agent was charming and funny as a lover.

When I managed to persuade him to stay another night, just for the pleasure of him in my arms, I felt almighty. Me, forty-seven, balding, half blind, bureaucrat, managed to seduce him into staying with me instead of rushing home to placate and reassure his precious, beautiful, female partner. We spent the night in an embrace that made me feel as if we were a custom fit, and in the very early hours, I woke to feel his fingers, experimentally stroking me to unbearable hardness. His kiss, with sleepy soft lips, was enough to finish me. 

So, why wasn't he back in my bed when I got home?

I waited until midnight before driving to his apartment. It was dark. His car was gone. I parked outside for a while, thinking he might have run an errand or gone to see Scully. But by two o'clock, I was pretty sure he was gone.

I spent two days trying to come up with an excuse to run into Scully so I could ask, casually, how Mulder was enjoying his leave? And by the way, where did he end up going?

I broke still more laws (some of them Federal, I'm sure) getting up to the Vineyard. The address she gave me was dark, and beginning to look a bit dilapidated, certainly not in keeping with the upper middle class Mulders.

But, his car was at the back of the drive, and to my surprise, the back door was unlocked. Where was his paranoia when he needed it? Mine was right with me, because I pulled my gun from the holster and readied it, as I stepped inside.

The kitchen was a dusty, undisturbed mess. Footprints in the dusty floor indicated a lot of recent pacing, but no sign that he had done more than cross the floor a hundred times. The same in every room I checked. I found an empty whiskey bottle on the floor in the hall upstairs, outside what must have been his room as a child. I sent my eyes around the moonlit room. It was more of a loft than a room, with bunks against the low sloped wall, and posters peeling off the walls, and a box of toys stacked in a corner. No other indication of what Fox was like as a child. There was a mark in the dust that looked as if he had been sitting up here, leaning against the wall.

I could see him, head tilted back, eyes staring off into the past, his mouth turned down in misery, and lifting the bottle occasionally for a long draw, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then returning to his memories. It broke my heart to imagine him there. 

But where was he now?

Coming down the stairs I saw another door I hadn't tried, and even as I turned the handle, I already knew what I'd find, and I steeled myself for it.

Damn it, Mulder, how could you do this to me?

The room was shuttered so no moonlight spilled in to illuminate it. It took

me a moment to accustom myself to the dimness. There he was, stretched on the sofa, arms at his side, motionless. But, there was no smell of gunpowder, no splatter of blood. I hadn't seen any emptied medication bottles. Maybe he hadn't drunk himself into a suicidal stupor. I let myself breathe again as I came closer to the sofa.

I could hear him breathing then. A soft, rapid pant. He's dreaming, I realized, coming closer. Or having a nightmare. I knelt beside him, afraid to wake him, startle him out of whatever demon infested world he was lost in.

I put a hand on his chest, just grateful to feel the quick rise and fall.

He twitched and jerked. His lips parted and for a moment he reminded me of Munch's painting of 'The Scream'. His eyes were round and vacant, and his mouth pulled into an 'O' of panic. I put my other hand over his mouth, and held him a moment. "Easy, Mulder," I said. "Easy."

It took a minute for him to orient himself, then he met my eyes with a glare, and pushed my hand away. "What the hell are you doing here?" he rasped, struggling to sit up.

I stood and backed up a step. I mean, it looked like that was my intent, but in truth I was merely recoiling from his question. "I might ask you the same thing, Agent Mulder," I said stiffly.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, just as I had pictured him. "I live here." He shrugged and those haunted eyes went around the room. "I did."

"But, why did you come up here this week?" I said. Did that sound like a whine to him? It did to me.

He didn't look at me. "Because I'm going to sell the place and I wanted to get some work done on it before I do."

"How much work did you get done, sitting in the dark, drinking?" I asked.

Shit. He was right. I do have that father voice down good.

He smiled. It was grim and rueful, but it was a smile. "Can I ask you a question?" he said, looking down at his bare feet.

"Of course."

"Why?"

I frowned at him. "Why what?"

He looked up at me. His eyes seemed silvery. It must have been the poor light. "Why did you hand me all that shit about a commitment? You had me.

I was willing. I didn't want anything in return. Why did you have to dress up the fact that you wanted to fuck me?"

"I..." I stopped. "I didn't. It wasn't about fucking you, Mulder. It was about loving you."

I heard him mutter under his breath. I think he said, "Don't hand me that bullshit." A moment later he dragged his hands over his eyes swiftly. "Why did you blow me off in the office the other day?"

"I didn't," I repeated. Pieces falling into place suddenly produced a picture, albeit warped.

"What was all that shit about needing a good night's rest? What was all that shit about getting out of town, i.e., 'get away from me, Mulder'?"

"Is that what this is about?" I didn't know whether to laugh or to hit him.

"The good night's rest I was referring to was the one I was hoping to have, in your arms. Getting out of town meant getting out of Alexandria and coming up to Crystal City."

Mulder's eyes narrowed, then shut tight. Then his head dropped sharply, hanging between his slumped shoulders. "I thought you meant..." He stopped and sighed.

"Rule number two. No, never mind." I knelt at the side of the sofa. "This isn't a sentence either of us wants to finish. Mulder." I reached out and squeezed his naked shoulder, gently. "I wanted to spend this time with you.

I wasn't sending you away, brushing you off. Good God, I might as well try to brush off my lungs at this point."

He lifted his head, looked down at my hand and then made himself meet my eyes. I mean he had to force himself to look up. "I didn't know that. How was I to know that?"

Indignation boiled in me. How could you not know? You fucking, blind asshole? Didn't I just lay myself out for you? Didn't I just expose every nerve, every fiber for your inspection? I didn't say anything. How would he know? This is a man who wouldn't understand kindness, it wasn't his native tongue. He couldn't recognize generosity if he had never seen it before.

Love was as alien to him as his little green-gray men. "Because I told you," I answered, and lifted my hand to stroke his cheek.

His gaze faltered and fell. "I've been told a lot."

"I know." I dragged my thumb across the definition of his cheekbone. "But, I promised you, you can trust me. Why do you think I'm here?"

He shook his head against my touch. "I don't do this well. I'm not good at all the subtleties of relationships. That's why I don't have any."

A flash of insight. A brief peek into the gears and ghosts of Mulder's mind.

"Scares you, doesn't it?" I suggested.

He laughed, silently. "Shitless."

I stood. "Let's get out of here."

He looked up at me. Dear God, that expression; open, pained, hopeful, incredulous.

I held out a hand. "There's a Day's Inn up the road. Let's go get some food in you, and a decent night's sleep and see if we can't salvage the weekend."

"Food?" he repeated, rising slowly.

"I was a trained field investigator. I'm sure I can find a drive through someplace."

Then I saw it: A hint of a grin, a spark of green even in the gloom of the room. "No, I mean is that all you want to get into me?" 

I felt part of me melt and part of me grow rigid in the same instant. "We'll see after you eat," I promised. "Where's your bag?" 

He made a vague gesture toward the hallway.

"Have you eaten anything since the bacon and eggs at my place the other morning?"

Those hazel eyes squinted thoughtfully.

"Mulder, we now have a new rule: We will both make every effort to take care of ourselves and one another, so we can be together for a long time."

He leaned in and pressed his brow against my shoulder. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"'Sir'?" I repeated.

"Oh, did I break a rule?" He lifted his head and leered. "I'll have to pay a penance, I suppose."

I sighed, relieved. Things were all right again.

That late at night, I felt fairly comfortable getting a single room, but with two beds, at the back of the motel. Mulder was drowsing in the front seat, and I half walked, half dragged him into our room, and dropped him gracelessly on the nearest bed. "I asked at the front desk. There's a hamburger drive through that's open twenty-four hours, right next to the

Interstate. What do you want?"

He opened one eye and smiled, softly. "You."

Lust surged through me. There he was, on his back, on a bed, just the way I had been hoping for three days. I leaned over him, trapping him between my thighs, and kissed him, thoroughly, the first time since I let him out that morning three days before. "I'm dessert," I promised. "You need some protein."

"Semen is nothing but protein," he said. Such a matter of fact statement, but it made me want to climb up and force feed all the semen he could swallow.

"Yeah, but you can't get fries with that," I retorted, reigning myself in.

You just wait, Mulder. The minute that hamburger disappears, you're mine.

He chuckled beneath me. "All right. It would be very embarrassing if my stomach started growling in an intimate moment, anyway. Just get whatever looks good. I'm going to take a shower."

I was tempted to say that him in the shower was what looked good to me, but I knew if I didn't get out of that room soon, I wasn't leaving 'til check out tomorrow.

An hour later, we both were naked, in bed, consuming one another. His chin, his throat, my shoulder, my bicep, the only sound in the room our ragged breathing. Occasionally, my head would clear enough to ponder the pure joy of holding him, but it filled quickly again with the swirling fog of heat and passion.

Lost in this forbidden pleasure, I was unprepared for him to commandeer control. Suddenly, I was on my back, him straddling my chest, his fingers in what was left of my hair, his eyes gleaming. "I believe you promised me dessert," he snickered, scooting backward, dragging his firm ass and tight balls over my chest, abdomen, for one electric moment, along the length of my cock, and then my thighs. Settling there, he leaned over, and began to lick, bite and suck his way over my chest. The attention he lavished on my nipples was agonizingly sweet. His kisses to the scars on my belly were loving and gentle and nearly brought tears to my eyes.

And then...

It's been a long time since I've had a blow job. Sharon didn't care for it, so it probably goes back to my high school days, or maybe a couple R & R's in Saigon, but no one ever did it the way he was doing it. I had a feeling I was an ice cream cone and he was a five year old the way he nibbled his way up and down my shaft, over the crown with delicate twirls of his tongue and then plunged the whole length into his mouth. I think I nearly choked him, coming up off the bed spasmodically. "Mmulder!" I settled back, gasping.

"Shit."

He raised his eyes to meet mine, and he smiled around me. Then he began to pump. I've seen this man use his mouth for some pretty amazing things over the years, but I had no idea he was this talented. He was sucking my life out as if my cock was a straw. I couldn't resist. Within moments, I was shooting down his throat, oblivious to his choking, desperate scramble to swallow.

When I could think again, I opened my eyes. He was back on his heels between my legs, wiping cum from his mouth with the back of his hand, but he was grinning, almost as idiotically as I was. "Agent Mulder," I gasped. "You did NOT learn that at Quantico."

He shook his head and settled down beside me. "Nope. But, you know, sir, being a trained field investigator myself, I pride myself on being a quick study."

I looked down at him, cradled in my arm. "You mean...you've never done that before?"

He shook his head. "But, I've been the recipient a few times, so I knew what I liked." He let a fingertip trail around one my nipples, still rock hard from a shot of pleasure to the adrenal glands. "I just hoped you'd like the same things."

"I did," I assured him. "That was a job well done."

"Thank you, sir." He snuggled up against me, and sighed to his soles.

"Thank you."

I nudged him. "What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep," he answered, without opening his eyes. "Dessert always makes me sleepy."

"But, what about you?"

His answer was faint. "Tomorrow. I got what I wanted."

"And that was?"

I felt him smile against me. "You."

I kissed his hair. "I love you, you know."

"Mmmhmmm."

I smiled to myself. That was probably all I could hope for, but, in Mulder-speak, it was enough.

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part VI - Nothing But Net  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Sometimes you just have to let it go and you hope you get it in.  
FEEDBACK - Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.   
* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps", and Grammar Queen and the kit'n'caboodle for alpha, beta and omega. 

* * *

Same Game VI - Nothing But Net  
by Mik

I'm not sure when I woke. I'm not good at judging time that way. I'm used to just being awake, and knowing from the length and line of the shadows on my walls what time it is. It had to be very early morning. That point where the sun hasn't broken the horizon but has sent word on that he's coming to take over the neighborhood.

Darkness leaves.

It's a grey light. No definable source. I think it might be my favorite time of day. It's the time when everything hangs in the balance. Nothing can be black or white, good or bad, day or night. It's the one time in a twenty-four hour period when I let it all go. 

I opened my eyes, found myself adjusting to that greyness and let myself assess things. I was curled against that mountain of body, his arm around my back, his hand cupped around my shoulder.

I wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The hair on his chest was crushed beneath my cheek, tickling slightly with every breath.

It was a good, safe place to be.

My mouth tasted terrible. Mental note, Mulder: Never go to bed without brushing your teeth after a cum cocktail. Still...what a rush, making him come like that. He roared like a lion and came up off the bed like he'd been levitated by a fakir. I couldn't help but be proud of myself for a job well done. It was more erotic, more exciting, more satisfying seeing him, feeling him come than anything that could have happened to me.

I think it was because he lost control. I've never seen it happen. I've seen him angry, I've seen him enraged, I've had him take me down and hold me like the back line of the Packers, but, never once has he lost that steel under girding of control. In my hands, under my tongue, he let go. I felt my head swell a little with unexpected power.

And look at him, now, I thought, considering his profile in this fine, almost palpable grey light. Strong chin, well shaped nose, surprisingly sensual lips, thick black lashes fanned across those broad cheeks. And, I know something most people don't know, I added, shifting slightly in my muscular cradle. There be dimples in those cheeks.

"What are you smiling about, Mulder?"

Ah, that grumbling voice, reverberating in my ear. I lifted my eyes and found him looking down at me. "What?"

"You look like the proverbial cat with cream right now."

I eased away enough that I could raise up on an elbow and look down on him. "What are you doing awake? Don't you know this is my time?

This is my witching hour. Go back to sleep."

"And miss the chance to see you turn into a bat and fly away?" 

He rolled onto his side. "No way." He stroked a hand down my arm. 

"You slept a little while, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I slept..." I sent my eyes around until I could find the red light of the VCR clock. For just a moment, it was two red eyes, watching me. I shivered. "About five hours."

He yawned, deeply. Oh, Lord, I could plunge head first into that mouth. "Is that some kind of record for you?"

"You know," I admitted with a wry laugh. "I think it is."

"Well, what time did you want to get back to the house?" He slid a hand over his smooth brow, and patted down the fringe of brown.

"Uh...the house?"

"You said you wanted to get some work done it."

It took me a moment to recognize my stupid excuse. "Oh, no."

I shrugged. "I'll hire someone to come in and-"

"I don't mind helping, Mulder. You'd be surprised to know I'm fairly handy with a hammer and a paint brush."

I wouldn't doubt it, I thought, momentarily imagining him in denim overalls and nothing else. "You know, you've breaking your own rule quite a bit. You've called me Mulder or Agent Mulder several times, in bed."

"Well, as I recall, you were doing a fair amount of 'sirring' yourself," he returned, evenly.

I drew a deep breath. "I guess we both have to pay a penance, then."

"What do you think you have in mind?"

"Well...let's see. We've ruled out Aunt Bea and the apple pie."

"You're insane." He cuffed the back of my head with his hand.

But he was laughing, a nice deep, warm sound, the color of chocolate that didn't fit in my grey world.

"I think I should get another backrub, and you should get...breakfast in bed?"

"Really?" He arched a brow. "What did you think I should eat?" 

It wasn't my original intent, I swear it, but I couldn't resist. 

I flopped over on my back. "Me."

For a moment, he looked unsure. Just unsure enough that I was prepared to withdraw the suggestion and stumble out some pointless, embarrassed apology. But, he surprised me again, by running a speculative hand down over me, almost testing me for plumpness, like a wicked old woman planning a Hansel pie. "I think..."

He paused, considered me up and down.

I held up two fingers. I was grinning, I know it. The idea of my boss going down on me...hell, I'd probably get off on the image alone. 

He looked up at me. His face seemed so...so naked without his glasses. It was an erotic rush to look back. "I think we agreed that you were going to lead one of these days."

It took a second. Flip, flip, flip through the transcripts of previous conversations. Ah, yes. Lead. Sex. Him. Oh, yeah...

"Oh, we will, I promise you that. But, I'd like to think I'm a bit of a gentleman. I'm not going to pop your cherry in a cheap hotel room off the interstate."

He blushed. Even in that light I could see it. It was...well, okay, it was cute. Cute is not normally a word I would put in the same sentence with Walter S. Skinner, but that was cute. "What did you..." 

He paused, glanced away and looked back. "What did you have in mind?"

"I dunno." I stretched and even without looking I could feel his eyes slide over me. "I thought maybe a room at the Henley Park or at the very least, your own bed."

"You couldn't afford a room at the Ramada, Mulder," he scoffed and sat up. Impulsively, he squeezed my thigh. "But, I like the way your heart works."

"My...um...heart?" I teased, wiggling my hips a little. I was getting a fairly nice erection and I wanted him to notice. And what is that crack about not being able to afford a room at a nice old place like the Henley Park? Does he really think all my money goes into my closet? How vain does he think I am? I'm going to show that old dog a trick or two.

"What are you smiling about, now?" he asked me, and I noticed his fingers remained on my thigh.

"Nothing in particular." I sat up and took a healthy bite of the roundness of one of his shoulders. Damn, I'm oral. "You."

"Hey." He slapped at me. "Cut that out." I think it might have turned into something silly, but he caught my hands and forced me back on the bed, covering me with his body. Then covering my mouth with his.

Let me get this on record while I'm still coherent: Walter S. Skinner is the make-out king! Comfortable enough to put all his weight on me, he combed his fingers through my hair, and assaulted my mouth like the beach at Normandy. My ears, my chin, the bridge of my nose, my throat got either faint fingertip caresses or determined licks.

And all the while his body was grinding against mine. At one point, I felt his legs part and lock around mine for leverage, and then he really began to rock.

"Oh, God, Walter," I gasped whenever my mouth was free. When it wasn't, my only response was a groan that could have been fright, pain, or physical thrill, and to try to lift my hips against his. 

Since he outweighs me by a good forty pounds, I wasn't having much luck, but it sure felt good trying.

He found that place where neck meets shoulder and latched on like a lamprey, dragged his fingers down my arms, to find my fingers and tangle with them, and then he started a sort of circular motion with his hips which gave me incredible pressure and then just the lightest brushing of his hair across my cock.

I could feel it, I could see it, I could taste it coming; an orgasm of epic proportions. This was going to prove to be more powerful, more amazing, and more memorable than that first one in the pool house with...oh, hell what was her name? Doesn't matter.

She had tiny round tits, but she was willing to share, and one touch and I was a goner. "Ohh, shiiit, Andie."

He stilled over me, even as I was still pumping and shuddering. 

"What?"

Uh oh, black cloud of a face. "Uh..."

"Who the hell is Andy?" He was backing off of me while I was still scrambling to hold on to him.

"She was a girl I dated when I was fourteen," I gasped, trying to coax my heart back down my throat. I looked down between us.

What a mess. What a beautiful, glorious mess. I smiled back up at him. "Thank you, Walter."

He kept moving, backing all the way to the bathroom. He came back with a wet washcloth and a towel and held them out to me. For a moment, all I could do was look up and admire the way he was built. 

He was...I don't know...if a '63 Stingray could be a man, he'd be one, all horsepower and aerodynamic curves. He'd be bright red, too.

But he'd smile. And Walter wasn't smiling. He was holding the towel in his hands, frowning. I wiped the last of our cum away and sat up, trying to reach for him. "Walter?"

He took a couple of steps backward, staying out of my reach.

"Walter?" I repeated. "Wally? Uh...sir?"

He was twisting the towel into something that looked painful.

"Do you have to think of women to be with me?"

"No, it's not mandatory, I just..." Oh. I get it. I shifted toward the edge of the bed. "I was having the most incredible orgasm I've had since I was fourteen. My mind just had to go back and try to remember her name, that's all." I twisted a finger toward my temple. 

"It's the weird way my mind works. Associations." I smirked at him.

"For the rest of my life White Castle hamburgers will make me think of you."

He looked down at me, doubtfully. "White Castle hamburgers?"

"Yeah." I pointed across the room to the trash can. "Dinner last night."

"Well, I'm glad to know I'm inspired by haute cuisine," he muttered and took the washcloth back to the bathroom.

"Take me someplace classy for dinner, and I'll give you a chance for a recount," I offered, following him. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection. There was a different kind of nakedness in his face now. It made me uncomfortable to see him so exposed. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my face to his shoulder. "That was incredible, by the way."

"Thanks." He shrugged, effectively dislodging me, and turned toward the tub. "Excuse me. I think I'm going to take a shower."

He threw the plastic curtain back, almost savagely.

"Need someone to wash your back?" I offered. I knew we were on thin ice here, and I even understood why, to a point. It is not kosher or kind to call out someone else's name in the middle of mind blowing sex. But, surely he could see I didn't mean it the way it seemed. Couldn't he?

"Thanks no. Why don't you see if you can go back to sleep?" he suggested, stepping into the tub.

"I don't think so, macho man," I countered, following him, even though it was a tiny tub, and he was filling it up all by himself. "I don't sleep well with a pulse of 200. Give it a chance to come down a little." I reached over and started the water.

It banged in the pipes as it rattled its way down to us, and I'm sure those I didn't wake up with my scream were wide awake now.

When I turned around, he was still frowning at me. I put a hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry I said her name, Walter. I wasn't thinking of her like that. I was just trying to remember the name of the last person to make me feel so damned good and-"

"It's okay, Mulder." He caught my wrist and gave it a little squeeze. "It's okay."

"You're Muldering again," I warned him.

"You don't like Fox."

"I like you calling me Fox," I answered, and to my surprise, I did. There was something very...dare I say comforting? about the way he said my name. I leaned up, tried to kiss him.

He put his free hand on my shoulder and pushed me back. "Look, let's be realistic here."

I made a face. "Oh, do we hafta'?" I knew what was about to come out of his mouth. I even knew why. I just didn't want to hear it. "I don't have anything to offer you-"

"No?" I hefted his cock in one hand. Even flaccid it was a handful.

"There's more to life than sex, Mulder."

"All right." I released him and folded my arms across my chest. 

"What are you saying? You're tired of me? I'm too high maintenance?

Too old? Too young? Too me?" I shrugged and backed away from him. 

"Gee, this is a short relationship, even for me."

He reached out and stroked my cheek. "Mulder, compared to you I'm an old man. You're young and passionate and beautiful and-"

Ah, so that's it. "Walter, you need your glasses," I broke in. 

"And from where I'm standing there is nothing old, or apathetic or ugly about you. Don't you get it, Wally? You're it for me."

He scowled. "Did you just call me Wally?"

"Yeah." I grinned at him, tauntingly. "Whatcha' gonna' do about it?"

There was a hint of a smile beneath that scowl. "I'm gonna' throw your skinny ass over my knee and give you the spanking you've deserved since you were five." Suddenly, he stopped. "Oh, shit, Mulder, I'm sorry."

I know it showed on my face, even though I tried to keep the grin in place. I shook my head and swallowed. "It's okay, it's okay."

I stepped over the rim of the tub and fumbled for the paper thin towel. "I'm going to...um...go back to bed. Come back when you're done, okay?"

XXX

Idiot! I wanted to bang my head against the tiles until I bled. You don't threaten an abused child with a spanking. Even I know that. And how could I even threaten raising a hand to him, the way I felt about him? But the worst of it was that, despite the color draining from his face, and the way his features went slack, there was a moment-I almost missed it-where his eyes gleamed hopefully.

There was some demon in the pit of his existence that craved the violence, hungered for the pain.

I ducked my head under the steaming water and groaned, "Oh, God, 

Mulder, what did they do to you?"

A few moments later, I came back to the bed, a towel around my mid-section. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me, slumped forward. I climbed onto the bed behind him and knelt there, fingertips on his shoulder, waiting for some cue.

He remained silent. His hands were knots against his thighs.

I pressed my fingertips into the muscles of his shoulder and made rough circles in his flesh.

After a few moments, he risked a glance back at me. "What are you doing?"

I willed my voice to remain even, unconcerned. "I believe my part of the penance was a back rub."

"Uh, yeah, but I already got a front rub."

"Shh. Let me do this." I began to make those circles with both hands, over both shoulders. I found the nickel sized pucker where Scully's bullet had pierced him. I was compelled to press my mouth to it, not a kiss, really, just a momentary homage to the prices he paid for his belief.

He reacted to that, leaning back into my mouth. "That's nice, Walter."

I slipped my fingers around the balls of his shoulders. "Come on, lay down. I'll do this right."

He turned around, meeting my eyes. "Walter. You are doing this right."

His eyes. So earnest, so warm, so forgiving, so...young. I pressed my mouth to his brow. "Listen to me," I whispered against his flesh. 

"Don't ever doubt that I love you."

I felt him shake his head. "You're crazy." He lifted his head, and I looked down at him. "I studied crazy. I know."

I smiled at him. "Takes one to know one." Hardly original, but certainly apt.

It made him laugh. What a sound. Talk about alien! He settled against me so abruptly that we fell back into the pillows. I just wrapped my arms around him, and held him. "When do you want to get started on the house?"

"Oh, good grief, Walter, I don't," he chuckled. "That was just a ruse. An excuse to get out of town before I made a complete jackass out of myself, standing under your window in a torn tee shirt screaming 'Skinner' in a bad imitation of Marlon Brando."

"I could see you as a young Marlon Brando," I said thoughtfully. 

"Me? Oh, no. I'm not tough enough." He tilted his head upward, to look at me. "You could have been Marlon Brando. I'd be...

Maxwell Smart."

"Mulder, I said sternly. "What did I say about popular culture in bed?"

"What did you say about Mulders and sirs in bed?"

He had me there. I nodded. "Well, it looks as if we've got one of each, at the moment."

Laughing, he rolled over and pressed his cheek to my chest.

"That's good," he murmured. "Just the way it ought to be."

I toyed with his hair. Where did he get such soft hair? It should be coarse and thick, not fine and silky. "I'm sorry I-"

"Shh," he whispered against me. "I know you didn't mean it."

Was that regret I thought I heard? A millisecond of flat disappointment? No, Mulder, I thought, twisting his hair in my fingers. I'm not going to hurt you. Not this time. Not ever.

"Ow!" I felt his fingers come over mine, stilling them.

"You may be unfamiliar with the concept, sir, but that hair is attached to my head."

"Sorry, sorry." I pulled him upward and kissed the top of his head.

The light was growing, and I could hear the giggling voices of small children on their way somewhere, being followed by shushing parents, reminding me that there was a whole world of Saturday morning outside those thin, motel room walls. I nudged him.

"What do you want to do today, if we aren't going to work on the house?"

His chin was digging into my chest, his eyes half closed, but a smile started to curve on those skillful lips. "This?" he suggested, 

lazily.

I nudged him again. "Come on, this is Massachusetts. Let's find something that'll scare the locals."

He backed up in a sitting position, laughing. "Walter, this IS Massachusetts. The only thing we could do to scare locals up here is to be openly Republican." He shifted around, dropping his feet near my pillow, and settling back, hands behind head, toward the foot of the bed. "I could take you up and show you my old stomping grounds," he offered, thoughtfully.

I did not sense a tremendous desire in his suggestion. I reached out and caressed his ankle. "Is that what you want to do?"

"No." He turned and dragged his tongue along mine. "I want to stay in this room and do things we could still get arrested for in twelve states." Suddenly he was sitting up again, his hands on my chest. 

"Let's go to Boston."

"Boston?" I captured his hands. "Why Boston?"

"Because my favorite bookstore is in Boston," he answered, tucking his legs under him, so that he looked very much like he was begging. "Because, I want to walk the Common with you. Because..."

He leaned down and whispered, a low, throaty sound that went right to my spine. "...because there's a great bar there where we could go dancing."

I froze. "Dancing?"

He sat up, smiling at me. For that smile I might almost be willing...

"Yeah. It's a great place, Walter. Not a gay club, just a place where nobody cares what anyone else is doing. I used to go there all the time. With girls," he added quickly. "But, now I want to take you."

"No." I pushed his hands away and sat up.

"Oh."

I turned and looked at him. He was kneeling there, looking at his hands. "What?" I asked.

"You're ashamed to go out with me?" He shook his head. "I know, it's okay. It's a little too soon. No sense burning your bridges. 

I under-"

I cut him off with a hand pressed over his mouth. "I don't mind going anywhere with you. I am not ashamed of you and I'll go any place you like, just not dancing."

He nodded against my hand and pulled away. "I see. We should do 'guy stuff', right? Go see a baseball game, go fishing? Scratch and spit and talk about hooters?"

"That's not it, either." I sighed, and reached for my bag, unzipping.

"Well, then, tell me what 'it' is?" he snapped.

I routed around for clean socks and briefs. "I don't dance."

"You mean, you don't like to."

"No." I pulled out a dark green polo that I hated, but wore once a month, because it was the last thing Sharon gave me. "I mean I don't. I don't...."

After a moment, he said, simply, "Number two."

"I don't know how."

I waited for a jeering remark, a whoop of derisive laughter, but all I got was silence, so I risked a glance over my shoulder.

He was just staring at me. "What?" I demanded.

"Is that it?" He backed toward the edge of the bed. "Is that really it?"

"Yes, what else would it be?"

"That you don't want to dance with me," he answered.

"Fox Mulder," I said on a long, sigh. "I would be delighted to dance with you. But...I...don't...know...how."

"Come on, Walter," he coaxed, coming around the bed. "Everyone knows how to dance. They make you learn this stuff when you're a kid. Alphabet, simple addition, box step."

"I'm afraid, Agent Mulder that my extracurricular activities involved chicken coops, and sheep pens, not cotillions and etiquette classes." I said this more roughly than I meant.

Mulder didn't take offense. "You got off lucky, then," he answered, easing the shirt out of my hands. "Come on, it's not so hard." He wrapped himself around me, wiggling his crotch against mine.

"It's a very logical process. It's predictable." He began to rock, holding me against him so I had no choice but to rock with him.

It was slow, and almost comforting. "It's a pattern," he purred, putting his cheek to my shoulder. "It's a rhythm." He lifted his head and sought my eyes. "It's like sex, Walter. And God knows you can do sex."

I have to admit it felt good to hold him, to sway gently to some tune only he heard. We didn't move from that spot on the floor, but I felt just slightly transported. I put my arms around his shoulders, held him close to me, savored the warmth of his body against mine, and let him establish a pattern of movement I could predict, follow, enjoy.

We had a pattern, he and I. Advance, retreat, advance, connect, retreat, retreat, advance. It was a rhythm in my head. For this moment, we had connected. I felt joined to him.

"You see, Walter, it's good." He lifted his head and kissed me softly. "We can dance at your place, can't we?"

Impulsively, I took his face in my hands and kissed him back.

"Advance," I murmured.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." I released him. "Yes, we can dance at my place."

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part VII - Fouled Out  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Sometimes you just have to let it go and you hope you get it in.  
FEEDBACK - Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.   
This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps", and querida Susan, for her brilliant execution of all things beta. 

* * *

Same Game VII - Fouled Out  
by Mik

Advance. Advance. Advance. I've been trying to figure out what he meant since he kissed me and murmured that one word.

I tried asking him, but he started that ring around the rosy talk he's learned dealing with the bureaucrats, and I never did get anything remotely like a real answer. But I will.

We goofed around in the hotel room until almost nine o'clock. By then, Skinner's orderly nature and routine were being seriously challenged. Even the day we called out, he had breakfast on the table by eight, and we were dressed and the dishes done by nine. Lounging around, naked, in a hotel room was just too much of a strain for him. So I threw on some jeans, and let the trained field investigator find us a coffee shop.

He spent most of breakfast just staring at me. I can't believe, in all the years I've been reporting to him he's never seen Breakfast With Mulder. Scully is accustomed to it, even has a modified version of it. I can never gauge just how hungry I'll really be when I sit down to breakfast, so I never order any of those combo-things that coffee shops specialize in; you know, three pancakes, some sort of formed animal flesh, potatoes/toast/grits, wilted lettuce and watered-down juice. I go directly to the 'sides' menu, start at the top and work my way down. Top on this hit parade was a blueberry muffin, and a cup of coffee.

He wasn't exactly shy about ordering. He wanted pork chops for some reason. Not a formed animal flesh I could truly appreciate at this time of day. But he seemed to think it was appropriate. I made a mental note never to let him wake up when it was still dark. It clearly confuses him.

After the muffin, I went on to fruit and some bacon. And more coffee. He was just dragging the last of his dry wheat toast across his disgustingly runny egg yolks, when I ordered a bowl of cereal and some orange juice. He was nursing a cup of decaf during the grand finale, cinnamon roll and a milkshake.

The waitress brought the check one last time, glaring at me as she set it down, daring me to find one more thing to order. I grinned at her. "How are the hash browns?"

Skinner grabbed the check, hastily. "That will be all," he told her in his best dismissal voice. I nearly got up to leave at that tone.

"Mulder, do you eat like that all the time?" His eyes skimmed the check and I could hear the old adding machine crunch the numbers. 

I slurped the last of my milkshake and reached for my wallet. "Just breakfast."

He made a slight waving gesture with his hand and pulled himself out of the booth. I backed out from my side, and I know his eyes were on my ass. "I don't know how you do it, Mulder," he murmured.

"Nervous energy. Didn't you know fidgeting burns calories?

Haven't you noticed how much weight Scully's lost working with me?"

He frowned at me. "Cancer can do that, Mulder."

I flinched internally, but shook my head and pulled my jacket out of the corner of the booth. "She started losing weight long before she was given cancer."

"Mulder."

I twisted to look at him as I was tugging on my jacket.

There was a frown around his face, as if he didn't like remembering losing Scully, as if he felt personally responsible for her near death. I felt myself bristling. How could he assume responsibility? I mean, how dare he? Then I remembered all the things he had done to try and save her. "It's all right," I said quietly. "She's alive now."

"Yes," he said, and for a moment, I heard something in his voice, something distant, something that sounded faintly like a hiss.

The woman who rang up our bill didn't pay any attention to the many times the total had been changed, or the end result. She just banged numbers on that aging register, popping her gum, and smiled past us as she held out a hand for Skinner's cash. "You boys enjoying your trip?"

We looked at each other, flushing with guilt. Were we THAT obvious? I thought Skinner was actually going to stammer out some detailed explanation about how he came up to find his wayward agent before he drilled holes in his head again or something. I grabbed the change and said, "Yeah, thanks."

Out in the car, I held out the fistful of cash and coin to him. He shoved the key in the ignition and backed the car out of the slot quickly, as if he expected the cashier to come running out and yell 'Hey, I figured it out. You're gay!' He looked down at my hand, that frown furrowing up his brow.

"I was a good boy and ate all my breakfast," I announced.

"Can I keep it?"

He shook his head at me. "You ate everyone's breakfast, Mulder. Yes, if it means that much to you."

"Goodie," I told him, and opened my hand, making a great show of counting it up. "Will you take me to Toys R Us now? I want a Darth Maul action figure."

His brow wrinkled up. "A what? No, never mind. I don't want to know." He pulled back onto the interstate. "The only advantage I could ever see for not having any children was that I would never be forced to go into a place like Toys R Us."

Well, that took all the fun out of THAT. I folded up the bills, neatly, and stacked the change in the palm of my hand. Then I took a great deal of pleasure in working the money back down into the pocket of his Dockers. "I'm a little old to be getting the change just for eating my breakfast," I reminded him, wriggling my hand deep enough into his pocket to drag one of my fingers against the roundness of his balls. Let him remember how old I am now.

He squirmed under my caress and tried to pretend he didn't like it. "Mulder, I'm behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.

Now is not the time."

I did not remove my hand. I kept my fingers still, but I stayed there, letting my fingers rest on the cotton pocket lining right over his thigh. It would be time soon enough.

He took me back to the house to pick up my car, and we walked silently through the place together double checking doors and windows. At the back door I turned and sent my eyes around again, remembering my mother in this kitchen, angry about something I didn't understand at the time, pouring a bottle of Jim Beam down the sink. "I've gotta' sell this place," I muttered.

He put his hand on my shoulder then, and squeezed. "We can come up again in a couple of weeks and get it ready," he offered quietly. 

We. The promise of that simple pronoun warmed me. I was part of a 'we'.

At the door of my car, he paused, glancing around to see how easily we could be observed. "Are you coming back to my place?" he asked, softly.

I opened my door and tossed my bag in the back seat. "Sure, if that's what you want. You did promise me a dance."

He blushed again. He is so damned cute! "I'll stop and pick up something to barbecue," he offered.

There you go, manly stuff. We'll toss some meat on an open flame, and beat our chests and belch and feel like tough guys. And then I'm going to drag him inside and let him make me scream like a girl. I nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

There was an awkward moment, hovering there, not knowing whether to shake his hand or hug him or just climb in the car and drive away. 

Walter S. Skinner makes snap decisions all day long. He made this one in a snap and a half, leaning in to brush a kiss across my lips. "Hurry," he whispered, and backed away, turned on his heel and marched (yeah, he does march) toward his car. I stood there, mouth open, lips tingling, cock hardening, hair on the back of my neck starting to stand up.

I heard his car start and move away from the house, and I scrambled in behind the wheel, thinking I could play catch up with him all the way down the interstate. It might be fun to flirt at seventy miles per hour. As I flicked the key in the ignition I checked my rearview mirror, and for one moment, I saw red eyes. I felt my breath catch, and my heart thump a little and I looked again, and saw a driveway that needed to be retopped before I could sell the house.

I had to wait for him when I got to the complex. I don't know when I managed to pass him--I had a look out for him all the way. But somewhere in that long drive, he must have made a pit stop, because I sat in front of his house for nearly an hour before I saw his sedan pull up and make the electronic gate swing open. I started my car and swooped in behind him before the gate could shut, and pulled into his guest space or, as I now thought of it, my space.

I had been sitting there with a mite-sized unease that seemed to grow almost elephantine as the moments passed, wondering where he was. I couldn't define it, couldn't give it a flavor. I wasn't exactly worried about him, but I knew this was hard on him. It went against everything in his life, everything he stood for, everything he believed. There had been moments over the last few days when I wanted to hand it back to him with both hands, but then he'd look at me...just this look he has, and I'd want to hold on tight and fight everyone and everything to keep him.

This wasn't just him. There was something else, something unrelated to us, to this little world I was hiding in. Something out THERE. While waiting for him, I had scrambled around for my cell, and tried calling Scully. Sometimes just hearing her settles things for me. She's so logical that the sound of her voice can bring clarity. 

She wasn't home. I was about to try her cell, but he arrived, and I forgot about everything except teaching him to dance. Red meat was about to overshadow red eyes.

I climbed out of my car just as he went to the trunk of his and began pulling out brown paper bags. "Give me a hand here, Mulder?" he asked.

Oh, right. He went for groceries. "Sure." I let him put two fairly heavy sacks in my arms, while he took another two, and nudged his trunk shut with his hip. Nice, firm hip. I knew it by heart, now. Slightly concave and attached to a firm, well-formed butt. Yeah, the guy was made to be in a Dockers ad, I decided, following him to the stairwell. These waves of physical lust that overcame me around him were bewildering but undeniably pleasant, and I shifted myself discretely as I felt the beginnings of another erection.

In the kitchen, he moved about efficiently, putting things away. I surprised him by remembering where I found things during my unappreciated attempt at breakfast and put some of the stuff away myself. It was strangely comfortable to wander around his kitchen as if I belonged there. It was so...so domestic. I was used to the chaotic jungle of my life, and this man was trying to offer me heart and hearth.

"How are you doing there, Mulder?" he asked, easing a box from my hands.

"Huh?" I blinked at him.

"You've been staring at the linguini for five minutes.

Don't you like pasta?"

"Oh, yeah, high in carbs, good for running." I reached into the bag again and found it empty.

"Mulder?" He put a hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Why do you keep asking that?" I shrugged him away. "I'm fine. Really. So...raw meat for dinner, huh?"

"No, I thought I'd wave a match over it," he answered, with a forced chuckle. "Don't you like barbecue? Is that what you're so carefully not saying?"

"I like barbecue fine," I answered. "What are you talking about?" 

"Well, you seem a little..." He frowned. "Never mind."

"Rule number two, Skinner," I retorted.

"Distant. You seem distant," he blurted out. "And you made that crack about raw meat, so I thought-"

"I didn't say raw meat," I corrected him. "I said red meat."

For a moment, he looked as if he was going to argue with me. Then he shrugged. "I misunderstood you. How do you like it cooked?"

I knew then that he was right. I did say raw meat. Why? Because that's what I feel like. Raw meat, set in a trap waiting for my dangerous darkness to come back. "Um...I don't know, a little pink in the middle." I went out into the living room, and stared down at the pool below his terrace. What is the matter with you, Mulder?

"What's the matter, Mulder?" I felt his hand on my shoulder again, his long fingers working against the cords of muscle in my neck. "Are you having second thoughts?"

And thirds and fourths. "No. Not at all." I turned into his arm, and let him hold me. "I don't know what's in my head at the moment. I guess I'm just worried."

"We'll be okay, Mulder." He let his fingers dance over my shoulders. "We're two intelligent men. We can make this work."

Men. The operative word in that sentence was men. I sighed heavily. Still, he didn't seem to mind our anatomical similarities. He seemed to appreciate them quite a bit this morning. I sighed again, a different sort of sigh. He smelled good. I'm not sure what it was, aside from clean, but I wanted to just stand there and inhale him. No aftershave, no scent of soap or detergent, just pure, unadulterated Walter Skinner. Suddenly I was hungry and it wasn't for red meat or pasta. I turned my head just enough to get my mouth against his neck and suck.

I felt him swallow against me. I heard him groan with pleasure even though he didn't make a sound. I groped until I could find his fingers and twisted them into mine, pressing the whole length of my body against his. There was no sign of arousal, yet, but there was no sign of resistance, either. There was something about the feel of his body against mine. Safe, strong, solid. I'm not sure exactly what it was, but I craved it at that moment.

Food had become extremely unimportant to me. "Can we go upstairs?" I asked against his throat.

"Mulder." His laugh was self-conscious. "We just...only this morning...I have to start the coals."

I held on to him, even though I knew he was going to try and pull away. "I think we're smokin' already, Mr. Skinner, sir."

He gently disengaged his hands and put them on my shoulders.

"Relax, Fox. We've got the weekend. Let's just eat and talk for a little while. Give me a chance to recuperate, or I won't be able to have as much fun."

"Oh, well, for your sake, then." I backed away from him, but he held on just long enough to claim one kiss, one deep, impassioned, soul-sucking kiss, before he released me and smiled.

"You are good for an old man's ego, you know that?"

"Old?" I howled, following him to the terrace. "I'd like to point out that there's less than a decade between us."

He looked down at the barbecue. "Yes, but it's what we put in those years that can make a difference," he said, somberly.

I caught myself glancing over my shoulder, but I wasn't sure what I was looking for. So I merely nodded, trying to look as if I could possibly understand.

Something caught my eye, sitting on the table in the corner and I went to pick it up. "You read GQ?" I asked, pretty gracelessly.

He was building a pyramid of charcoal lumps. "Yeah. It's interesting. Lots of good health articles and things like that." He glanced over at me. "Why?"

"I dunno." I shrugged. "You just always talk about this rural background of yours, you know...chicken pens and sheep shit," I chuckled. "I just had this image of you, just now, sitting on a tractor, reading Gentleman's Quarterly."

He reached over and took the magazine away from me. "Go grab us a beer, will you?" he asked, resuming his assembly of an altar to Bael. 

I went to the fridge and collected a couple of long necks.

Well, he must think I'm special, I told myself. Last week he only had Sam Adams. He bought Heineken for the weekend.

I brought them back to the terrace and twisted the cap for him. "So, have you seen Scully this week?" I asked, tipping mine back. 

He nodded as he lowered his bottle. "I saw her yesterday at the briefing. She's the one who gave the address for your summer house." 

The beer turned bitter in my mouth. "Briefing? What briefing?" 

Guilt washed over him, visibly. "An armored car robbery

yesterday. Nothing to be concerned about." He gave me an unconvincing shrug. "We were setting up some surveillance on a possible suspect."

"Why send Scully?"

"Well, we needed an extra man, and since her partner was off duty-"

The unease was back; the size of a semi-truck now, and planted square on my chest. "You sent her out on surveillance without me?" 

He flicked me a glance and returned to his pyrotechnics.

"She is a skilled investigator, Mulder. She didn't learn everything from you."

"But, what if she gets hurt, what if she-"

"What if she did just fine and brought the perp in?" he countered, his soft firm voice cutting through the rising panic in mine. "Do her good to get a little glory, don't you think?"

I looked down at my beer. "Is that why you did it?"

"Mulder, I didn't DO anything. We needed an extra gun.

Policy directs that we utilize those agents whose partners are on sick leave or vacation. She was available, I used her."

"How did it go?" I asked. Maybe she did need a little glory. She'd been under my shadow too damned long. Shadow...I shook it off, decided to focus on him.

"I don't know. It was set up to start last night." He stepped back from the barbecue. "Now that's a proper fire."

I considered it. "Looks good." I considered him; broad chest, powerful arms, ugly shirt. "So do you."

He pulled his gaze to me, mouth slightly agape in protest and disbelief. "I'd have never taken you for such a sex fiend, Mulder." 

I leered at him around the lip of the beer bottle. "Always keep 'em guessing, that's my motto." I ran my tongue around the lip and then took the whole neck of the bottle into my mouth, slowly and deliberately, my eyes fixed on him.

He swallowed again, watching me. "Well, the coals need a while to get hot enough," he decided, moving toward me.

I grinned as much as I could and pulled the bottle out, ending with a loud, obscene suck.

"Get inside," he growled.

He was pulling me into his arms, settling his teeth against the cords of my neck, making me sigh, when I heard it. I stiffened.

He lifted his head. "Mulder?"

"I..." I stopped, listening. Heard it again. But this time it sounded different. "It's my cell." I pulled away from him and trotted to my jacket, flung over the back of a chair. "Mulder."

The hiss I'd been hearing all morning was suddenly a loud, triumphant roar. I dropped the phone into my jacket pocket and started to tug it on.

"Mulder?" He was coming across the floor toward me, and I jerked away from him. "Scully was shot. She's on her way to the hospital." I bolted.

Just as Mulder reached the door, my own phone began to ring.

I had a choice of ignoring it, and catching up to him so he could fight and struggle to get to her, or letting him go, possibly getting pertinent details about my agent's condition. I heard the door slam shut as I reached my phone.

There had been a firefight. Two suspects and two agents down. Condition on all four unknown. Scully and the other agent were en route to the local ER. I grabbed my jacket and keys and started off, not five minutes behind Mulder.

The fifteen minute drive was just long enough to decide that if Scully was seriously injured, Mulder would never forgive me, and just long enough to remember a million wonderful little crumbs that I'd have to live on if I lost him. Visuals; that lazy smile he gave me this morning, the way his hair stood up in all directions when he woke, the incredible, casual beauty of his body, the way he could look so innocent while trying to seduce me with a beer bottle.

Audio; the soft, even breathing of truly restful sleep, the little high-pitched moan when he came, the pointless, tuneless humming, that half snort laughter. Eccentricities; dancing, bookstores, the way he ordered breakfast, the way he loved me.

Loves me. No, if something happens to Scully, I told myself. It will all be past tense.

As usual, Mulder couldn't contain himself in the hospital.

He had yelled and threatened and made demands until security could be called. They had isolated him in a waiting room, and promised to send a doctor to him. I flashed my badge and got her condition before I was directed to him, pacing like a wild animal, eyes as bright as sunlight through jungle. "Agent Mulder?"

He jerked around. "You bastard," he rasped. "She didn't need to go. You could have found someone else."

His anger didn't surprise me. I was prepared for it. I wasn't prepared for the way the accusation in his eyes wounded me. I caught his shoulders, held him tight. "She was next on the list, Mulder. Her partner was unavailable. Relax. She's going to be okay. She's going to have a little scar on her shoulder. Another thing in common with you."

He didn't appreciate my humor. He tried pulling away from me. "Where is she? I want to see her."

I held fast. "She's in surgery. They're removing the bullet. She'll be fine."

"She won't be fine, she got shot." He struggled against me.

"It's my fault. I should have been here."

I should have foreseen that gaping maw opening to swallow the fault whole. "How is it your fault, Mulder? Are you saying you could have prevented a firefight?"

"If I had been here she wouldn't have been next on the list." I felt a dangerous little tremor run through him, as if he was just moments away from tears.

I glanced around, saw that no one could observe us, and stroked his hair back from his wild, grieving eyes. "It's all right, baby," I promised, in a low voice. "She's going to be fine. I spoke to her doctor myself. No major tissue damage at all."

"Don't." He jerked away from my touch.

"Mulder, Fox." I tried to reach for him, but he put distance between us. "Don't do this. It will be all right. Come on home with me. They'll call us when she's out of-"

He put his hands up as if to ward off a blow. "No, I want to..." He stopped, flicked a glance toward the door and then back to me, lowering his voice. "I need to stay. You go." He swallowed. "Go on home. I'll be along in a while."

"You'll come home later?" I repeated, wanting to make sure there was no miscommunication, that I expected him to be back in my arms by evening. "My place?" I added, in a whisper.

He nodded, jerkily. "Yeah. Later."

"You'll be all right?" He looked so lost, so forlorn, hunched into his jacket, staring at the floor. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, promise him every rosy, wonderful thing I could think of. Damn it, today I would be his daddy, if he needed it. If he needed balloons and merry-go-rounds and action figures, I'd give them to him. Anything to take that dark, hopeless expression from his eyes.

He nodded again.

I tried to put my hand on his shoulder. "Fox, she's going to be all right."

He nodded once again and stepped roughly away from me.

"Yeah, I know," he said, without any hint of the passion that usually flavored his words. "Look...don't worry about me. I'll be along...as soon as I hear something."

A code sounded behind us, and his eyes went to the doorway, his face paled.

I put up my hands to stop him if he tried to get through the doors. "Listen to it, listen to it," I repeated, roughly.

"They're calling for a crash cart on the fourth floor, cardiology. She's here on this floor. It's not her. It's not Scully."

He relaxed a little, sagging toward the wall. "I'll see you in a little while," he promised, without much enthusiasm.

I just want to see her...you know, be here when she wakes up." 

"Do you want me to get you some coffee?" I offered.

He shook his head, and rested his brow against the scuffed green paint. "Save me a beer, will ya'?"

I wanted to enfold him, caress him, promise him that it would be all right, she would be all right, but all I could do was drag a hand across the sleeve of his jacket and squeeze slightly as I reached his wrist.

I haven't been moved to tears in many years. When Sharon died. When Ray died. When I thought Mulder died. That morning, being told my agent (and, yes, for many years I have thought of him as MY agent) had eaten his gun, there was no one I could share my grief with, no one who could understand the depth of it. And now, I had a double barrel shot of potential grief; the injury of one of the finest agents, finest young women, finest people I had ever had

the honor of knowing, and the loss of someone who, in such a short time, had come to mean more than my life.

I stopped at the nurse's station again. The little girl (she seemed far too young and untouched to have seen the things a nurse has seen) looked up at me, wide-eyed. "Is he going to be all right?" she whispered.

I nodded. "They're partners. They've been together many years." 

"'Partners'? You mean, they just work together? Is that all?" She rolled her eyes a little. "I thought they were lovers the way he was carrying on."

Lovers? No, he is MY lover. Would he 'carry on' like that if something happened to me? He couldn't. Could he? Would I matter enough to him that he'd make a scene, not caring what others thought? "They're very close. Good partners are." For Mulder, a good partner was worth a hundred times more than a lover. "Could someone check on him in a little while?"

She nodded. "I can have a volunteer bring him some coffee."

"That would be good. Have we heard anything about her progress?" 

She consulted a clipboard. "Still in surgery."

I rapped the counter with my knuckles. "Thank you. Good night." 

In the parking lot, I slid behind the wheel and sagged in my seat. Should I have skipped over Scully? Could I have made another decision? No, she was right, and ready, and more than willing to take the assignment, with or without her partner. Mulder needed to realize that. He would. Eventually. But, at what cost?

Reluctant to leave him, but mindful of a pit full of coals left glowing on my terrace, I started the car, and maneuvered my way out of the parking lot. I couldn't erase the image of that lost, anxious little boy I left behind. There were many childish things about Mulder's personality that I found irritating as his superior. There were many childlike things I found engaging as his lover.

But, I had never really thought of him as a child until that moment when he let his head fall against the wall in defeat. I had to make that up to him, somehow. Balloons and merry-go-rounds and action figures.

I was passing a department store I had passed a hundred times before when unexpected and uncharacteristic inspiration struck. I cut across two lanes of traffic, ignoring horns of protest, and pulled into the lot.

*************************************************

I was smiling to myself when I heard the buzzer downstairs.

I had received a call from the surgeon about forty minutes ago that Scully was out of surgery, out of recovery and doing well. She would probably be discharged in the morning. The wayward partner had seen her and had been sent home.

Home. For today, home meant here, with me. I released the electronic gate and went to put the steaks on.

He knocked a few moments later. I let him in, mistaking that glow in his eyes for eagerness. "Well?" I asked.

"She'll live," he answered, striding into the living room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "No thanks to you."

"Mulder, it was in the line of-"

"Fuck that," he snarled. "You did it to get even with me."

I stopped as abruptly as I would hitting a brick wall. "You plan to explain that charge, Agent Mulder?"

"You had to do it, didn't you?" He moved toward me, his eyes an all too familiar fire of anger. "Can't forgive me for seducing you, for making you face what you really are, so you tried to take it out on my partner."

"What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?" I put my hands on his shoulders, and held him at arm's length from me. "As I recall, it was a mutual decision, and I, for one, have no complaints about it." 

He slapped my hands away. "That's bullshit, Skinner, and you know it. I saw the way you reacted to that cashier this morning. You can't stand it that some GUY got in your pants. You can't stand it that the GUY is me. Spooky Mulder made you turn queer." He sneered the words. "You knew you couldn't do anything to me directly, so you put my partner in harm's way."

It took me a moment or two to control myself, and by that point I already had him by the collar, pulling him up to dance on his toes. My fist was pulled back to strike, and it was only in that instant that I realized what his words meant. I lowered my fist, slowly, and eased him to the floor. Carefully, I worked my fingers free of his shirt front and took a step back. "I know you don't mean

that, Mulder. And if you really do, you should leave, now."

I was right. For a moment, there was a look of stunned disappointment, and then for only a fraction of a moment, the crumpled face of a wounded child. Then the cold, hard sneer returned. "Don't even have the balls to take me on anymore, huh, Skinner?"

I wrestled with two desires; to knock him to the floor, and to hold him tight to me. I turned, instead, to the front door, and opened it.

"Throwing me out?" he jeered.

"No. Asking you to leave."

He stalled. I could see his mind working on a reason to stay, another sally on my senses, something to push me over the edge. He swallowed, ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, and fixed a dark green stare at me.

Before he could say anything else I'd have to listen to in my dreams for the rest of my life, I shook my head and gestured toward the door. "Go. Go on." I looked up. He was still standing there, fists in his pockets, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly from one leg to the other. "Mulder," I said, pushing the door closed but not shut. "I won't do it. I won't beat you up just because you think you allowed Scully to be shot."

He parted his lips in protest, but I kept going. "I won't hurt you. I won't give you the pain you think you deserve. We've already been through this. You won't get it from me. The only way I can hurt you, the only way I'll allow myself to hurt you is to do this." I opened the door again. "Now, go."

He swallowed again. "And not come back," he concluded.

"No." I waited until he met my eyes again. "You can come back when you'll accept what I have to give."

He wouldn't give in, but I knew that. It was inherent in his nature to resist. "You have nothing I want."

I nodded, accepting that. "Oh, wait, yes I do." I went to the counter in the kitchen and returned with a small bag. "You want this." I pressed it into one of his pockets. "Goodbye, Mulder."

He pulled the bag out of his pocket and peered in. The expression on his face was incredulous, and pained, and defeated as he pulled out the blister packed action figure. He mouthed the words 'Darth Maul' to himself, shoved the package and the bag into his pocket, and went through the door, pulling it shut softly, behind him.

Retreat? No, I decided, returning to the kitchen. I think this time it's withdraw.

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part VIII - Cross Town Rivalry  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.   
SUMMARY: You always cheer for the home team...don't you?  
FEEDBACK - Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, no spoilers. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17 DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Once again, I give this to the owners and proprietors of the Chatterer's Gallery, for long midnight coffees and Peep Jerky, and to Buster, for starting this whole thing, querida Susan for keeping me honest and Lady D for sharing with me. Oh, please, Sergeeva, tell me you've forgiven me.

* * *

Same Game VIII - Cross Town Rivalry  
by Mik

I was toying with it when I heard the door open. I looked up and there she stood, Scully, her poor clipped wing in a bright, silk sling. Actually, the floral silk scarf in a loud print was jarringly out of character for her and I knew by the flush in her cheeks that Maggie had provided the sling for her. "Scully," I began, rising to take her things. "Should you be here today?"

"Yes, of course," she said. There was no affectation to her voice. She was answering quite honestly.

"Well, Saturday afternoon they were digging a bullet out of your arm. I just thought they'd give you a little more than two days off work for that. Hell, I got three days just because I let a killer in my head for a few minutes." 

"Mulder, you letting a killer in your head 'for a few minutes' is a hundred times more damaging than this was.

Didn't they tell you? It really just grazed my arm. The surgery was just to debride the wound and give me stitches."

She came to her desk and I pulled her chair out for her. She looked down at the chair, and then at her bag and coat in my hand. "However, if you feel you must make SOME gesture, I'd love a cup of tea."

"Right." I put her things down on her desk and reached for her cup. Talk about X files. She hadn't been in this office since Friday morning, and here, Wednesday, her cup was as clean and pristine as one just taken off the department store shelf. Mine always looks like someone's been slopping pigs--I cut off the thought, because it reminded me of my last pleasant conversation with Skinner.

"Mulder." She put her good hand on my arm. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." WHY does everyone keep asking me that? "Why?

I'm more concerned about you."

"I don't know. You just don't seem..." She stopped and shook her head.

"Rule number--" Again I chopped the words off.

But this time, someone heard me. "What?"

I shook my head. "What kind of tea do you want? The weird New Age holistic stuff that Holly brings in or the traditional All American Orange Pekoe?"

"Never mind. I think I'll have coffee. What rule?"

I ignored her and went for the door. Damn it. Three days and it wasn't getting better. In fact, I think it was getting worse. Yesterday I saw him in a corridor and I wanted to lunge at him. He kept on walking as if he didn't even see me. Well, maybe he didn't. He was in the middle of a serious argument with one of the other ADs and I did sort of duck into the alcove where the copier was before he passed by. Still, it hurt all day. Ridiculous. I'm a grown man, not a little boy with a crush on his teacher. I can get over this. I will get over this. It was sex. It was a quick fuck. That's all. No romance, no Hallmark cards, no Kodak moments, no...oh, hell, Skinner, fill in the pop culture reference of your choice. I was right. It was about sex.

I brought back what passed for coffee and a couple of her little pink packets, and set them on her desk. She was standing at mine, holding a Darth Maul action figure.

"Eating at McDonald's again, Mulder?" she asked. "The minute my back is turned..."

"No, Wal--" I stopped. How was I supposed to say, 'No, our boss gave it to me as a kiss-off gift'? "No, I wanted one. So I bought it. What can I say, Scully?" I gave her a weak grin. "Boys and their toys."

She fixed a look on me. The one that pins you to a wall.

"Mulder."

I stood there, pinned. "What?"

"Something's going on. You're not yourself. I could understand you being distraught Saturday. I could even understand you being a little anxious and distracted Sunday, but Monday and yesterday...Mulder, you're turning into a zombie before my eyes. Maybe you need more time off."

"A zombie, Scully?" I said, seriously. "You mean a human body which has been robbed of will and soul, raised to do someone else's bidding, usually for evil purposes?"

She put the toy down on my desk. "Fine. Don't tell me what's bothering you."

"Scully." I tried a laugh. It was weak. "There is nothing going on. I had a rough case end last week and then, while I was off on leave, my partner got shot. 

Granted," I rushed on as she started to protest. "It was nothing more than a grazing, but it did scare me. I'm going through my grieving process. It's normal. It's natural." I moved until I stood over her. "Stop fussing."

Impulsively, I pressed a kiss to her brow. "It's good to have you back, partner."

She seemed willing to accept that. She ducked her head a little and nodded. "I missed you, too."

As she turned for her coffee, I reached out to straighten the toy which she had allowed to fall over. She caught my action and smiled at me just as the phone rang. I glanced at the LCD readout, recognized the extension and froze.

Kim, Skinner's redoubtable secretary. "Uh, that's Kim," I said, reaching for my own cup. "I'm sure Skinner just wants to know if you're really up to working today. I'm getting myself some coffee."

I decided I was going to drag my feet about it. I actually carried my cup into the Men's room, and attempted to wipe a few layers of scum away. McElroy and Waters were at the

urinal, Waters complaining once again about his on-again, off-again relationship with a girl at Public Broadcasting, across the street from the Hoover. "So, now she tells me she's going to start dating this guy she met at the Metro stop."

"Let her," McElroy advised. He would.

"I don't know, man. It's not like I don't care about her or anything." I knew what he cared about. He had been bragging about her oral skills for weeks. "She just says I'm not romantic enough."

"Women are always saying that," McElroy commiserated.

"What do they want, anyway? Wine and roses every damned day?"

"It's not such a bad idea. You know, women like to know they're appreciated. Maybe I'll take her someplace nice.

Surprise her," Waters suggested, tucking himself into place. "Get a nice hotel room, wine her and dine her."

"Why waste yourself?" McElroy protested. "There are plenty of women out there."

"Yeah, and you've been married to most of 'em, haven't you, McElroy?" I put in, reaching for a paper towel.

"Fuck you, Mulder. I don't see you cozying up to anyone but the Ice Queen, and I'll bet her idea of a good time has something to do with corpses."

"If that were the case, she'd be all over you, wouldn't she?" I retorted. But his words slapped me. I had had someone to cozy up to. For a few hours, I had been part of a 'we'. And I fucked it up. Big time. I ignored the coffee machine and brought my semi-clean cup back down to our office.

She was just replacing the receiver. "Skinner wants to see us."

No. "Both of us, or just you?" I put the cup down. "I mean, you're the one who needs to debrief. Maybe he doesn't--"

"He specifically asked for both of us." She smiled at me, speculatively. "That's a pretty panicked look you've got there. What happened, Mulder? Did you manage to get on his last nerve while I was gone?" She reached for my arm. 

"Come on, partner, let's get this over with, and if you're a good little boy, I'll let you have McDonald's for lunch."

"Geesh, Scully, I'm not a little kid." I pulled my arm free. "Let's go see what he wants and be done with it."

I'm NOT a little kid, I reminded myself. I'm a grown man, and it's about time I acted like one.

We came into his office just as he was shrugging on his jacket. The gesture stretched the front of his shirt tight across his chest, emphasized his shoulders. "I'm on my way to a meeting," he said, abruptly, not even looking my way.

"Walk with me, Agents." 

I kept my eyes on neutral things, to avoid drooling, to avoid staring, to avoid the white gleam of his glasses.

"How are you feeling, Agent Scully?" he asked, holding the door for us.

I had to look up to go past him, and felt that white gleam rake my spine. I wanted desperately to make some smart-ass comment about her coming back to work on her shield, because I knew it would be expected of me, but I couldn't make anything come out.

She sailed right over me, anyway. "I'm fine, sir. It was just a flesh wound."

He and I looked at each other. We couldn't help it. We both looked away, quickly.

"I'm relieved to hear that, Agent Scully," he said, gruffly. "I've read the reports. We got some bad information, didn't we?"

She nodded as we reached the elevator. "Yes, sir."

We were silent in the elevator. It was eerie. With the reflective doors, it was like staring at ourselves in a mirror. And we had to stare straight ahead or risk meeting one another's eyes. Still, even without allowing my eyes to shift that millimeter to the left to take in his stern expression, I could feel him, the heat of him, the size of him, the power of him. Worse, I could smell him, taste him, hear him say my name. Fox. Please, Walter, just say my name and everything will be all right.

"There will be a final statement to the press this afternoon," he said, instead, as we reached the lobby. "It would be appropriate for you both to be there."

"Both of us, sir?" she said, because I couldn't get the words out.

Damn it, Walter, what is this? Torture? Punish me for walking out on you by making me be around you even when it isn't necessary? Forget it. I won't be there, and you can't make a case against me for it.

"I think so. You're partners. You should be together."

He took a few steps away from us, and looked back. "Two o'clock. Press room." He kept going. 

I scowled at his retreating back. Bastard. Who knew he had a sadistic streak in him? "Come on, Scully, let's go take a walk by Starbuck's, and I'll buy you a real cup of coffee."

We took our coffee to what had become over the years our bench, and sat, staring. She was watching people wander, admiring the cherry blossoms. I was staring morosely into the tidal basin. Fuck him, I kept repeating savagely. I don't need him. Fuck him. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I recognized a familiar stride. The concept of photosynthesis dawned brilliantly in me as I turned toward him. And then the sky darkened as he met and greeted a man in major military regalia. Not merely greeted, greeted with one of those all too rare, all too wonderful smiles.

I felt everything in my body constrict.

"Hey, Scully. Who's the guy with all the shiny stuff on his jacket? The one talking to Skinner?"

She squinted in that direction. "Welcome to the twentieth century, Mulder. That's General Hardy. He's from the Pentagon."

"He's a general?" He looked my age, if that. Blond and earnest looking, pumping Skinner's hand, his other hand on Skinner's shoulder. I wanted to jump up and wander over, inveigle my way into the conversation, just to put space between them. Instead, I sipped coffee, and watched them over the rim of the cup.

Look at that face, I thought. Look how intently he listens. I can predict--yes, he's inclining his head just enough to make it an intimate conversation. I can almost see the bulging cord of muscle in his neck from here.

They're standing too close, way too close. He never stood that close to me, and he's fucked me.

"Mulder?"

I turned sharply, nearly spilling what was left of the coffee in the cup I was practically crushing in my fingers.

"What?"

"You're grinding your teeth." She put her cup down and touched my arm. "If it bothers you that much to go to this press conference, bail. I'll cover for you." 

"Are you kidding?" I worked up a weak grin for her. "And miss seeing my partner in the spotlight? I'll be there and proud." I forced myself upright. "Come on. We'd better get back to work before the boss makes us stay after." 

I flicked the crumpled coffee cup into the trash as I steered her deliberately toward them. I wanted to get a closer look at this guy.

Skinner straightened as he saw us coming, and we both tossed a nod in his direction as we passed. I wanted him to stop us, call out and introduce us, but he merely shifted position and turned his back to us. "Are you sure he's a general?" I whispered as we reached the end of the tidal basin.

"Oh, yes. Comes from a long line of Westpointers." Scully sneered this. She couldn't help it. Her dad was Navy, Annapolis.

"Scully," I chided gently. "Be tolerant." But, damn it, he looked too young to be a general. He looked like he should be standing in front of an arcade game, sending animated star troopers off to fight CGI bad guys for as long as his allowance could hold out. So why is Skinner looking at him as if he might take him home and tuck him in? And why is it bothering me so much?

I knew the answer to that without even formalizing the question in my head. It bothered me on two levels. It bothered me because I still wanted him, and it bothered me all the more that, after a mere three days, he could shift his attention to someone else. A voice came, uninvited, to my inner ear; the voice of my mother, giving me the advice that she would have given my sister in this situation: A love so easily replaced is not a love worth keeping.

I stalled at the doors of the Hoover, and sent my eyes across the street to the building that was home to Public Broadcasting, and let the conversation between Waters and McElroy rewind and replay in my head. "Scully, would you consider DC romantic?"

"Oh, I suppose it could be." She shrugged. "I wouldn't call it first date material, but maybe if you really liked the lady, a walk under the cherry blossoms would be nice, or coffee on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I suppose any place can be as romantic as you want to make it. Why?"

She cast me a sly glance. "Who's the girl?"

I guess I was ignoring her. Skinner was basically an old-fashioned, morally upright guy. To pull him back into a relationship with me, I'd have to a) prove I really wanted him and b) make him really want me. That sounded like a job for wine and roses.

"Mulder, is that what's going on?" She sounded shocked, and giggly. "You've got a GIRL!" 

I scowled down at her. "Of course I do, you."

She scowled back. "I'm swept away by your passion."

I made myself laugh and drape my arm across her tiny shoulders. "Dana Katherine Scully, you will always be my best girl. Let's go. We've got work to do."

************************************************* 

"Scully, who IS that guy?" I hissed as we tried to run the gauntlet of reporters and get out of the press room alive.

The overgrown Boy Scout was back, standing at the back of the room, murmuring things to Skinner while Scully showed reporters how sharp terrier teeth can be. 

The questions thrown at her went from the inane to the insipid, and some of them bordered on ill-advised, suggesting that the show of force had been unnecessary. I had been so lost in my own well of misery, that I hadn't even been aware of the cries of 'ATF lives at the FBI' swelling up in the aftermath of the shootout. It wasn't until that afternoon that I saw the cartoon showing Hoover, in summer frock and jack-boots, mowing down hapless armed gunmen trying to run away with money from the Federal Reserve Bank.

Scully showed them, though. She reminded them of the two armored car drivers who were killed during the robbery, and the five children who were now fatherless. She knew exactly how any bullets were fired on each side, indicating that there was a greater show of fire power on the side of the bad guys, and a greater show of restraint on ours. In short, she did the Bureau proud, and she looked good doing it.

I really didn't appreciate the show, though. I was behind her, rocking back in my chair, arms folded over my chest, obsessing on General Hardy Boy, standing back there talking to my boss, my ex-lover, my Skinner.

"I know I've seen him somewhere," I persisted. "My Spidey-sense is tingling."

Scully didn't get a chance to answer me. Skinner and the military boy wonder were disengaging themselves from the back of the room and moving to head us off. Up close, the little shepherd boy looked even younger, more earnest; blond, blue-eyed, all American.

He also looked vaguely familiar to me.

"Agent Scully," Skinner growled, using his arms to herd us all out a side door. "You handled that very well."

"Thank you, sir," Scully said. Her face was still flushed with barely concealed contempt. 

"That was quite a display in there," GI Joe said. "Who would have thought a little thing like you would have managed to whip all those wolves into submission." 

Uh oh, Soldier Boy, I thought. Prepare to feel the sting of this wasp's tongue.

"Thank you, General," Scully murmured, glancing at her watch.

"I'm giving a small reception at the Henley Park this evening," he announced brightly. "I'd be honored if you would join me." He lifted his eyes and let them take me in, assess me and dismiss me in a moment. "And you, Agent Moulsen."

I bit my lip. Let him screw with my name. Why not? He's probably screwed with everything else that matters to me.

"I don't think--"

"Mulder, Sean," Skinner put in. "This is Agent Mulder."

His eyes widened. "This is...?" Skinner nodded.

"Well, you absolutely must be there," he told me.

"Is that an order, sir?" I asked, trying really hard not to sneer. I did not look at Skinner, I would not.

Everyone laughed. Hell, I didn't mean to be witty. "If you want to consider it one," 'Sean' chuckled. "Then, yes.

It's black tie. Six o'clock. Sharp." He patted Skinner on the shoulder. "See you later, Walt."

Walt. That constricting feeling was back. I felt Skinner look back at me. Or maybe both of us. "It's not a mandatory appearance, Agents," he began. "But it wouldn't hurt either of you to be there."

"Yes, sir," Scully answered the way only Scully can; that amazing mix of 'I can't think of anything I'd love more' and 'Oh, yes, I can, to see you with a stake through your heart, having an enema with a cattle prod.'.

"Yes, sir," I mumbled, grudgingly, and followed Scully away from the Press Room door. "Shit."

"Oh, come on," Scully teased, as we entered the elevator.

"Here's a chance to get dressed up and eat a meal that doesn't come in a styrofoam box, and do it all on Uncle Sam's dime."

"Hey, styrofoam is high in petroleum, goes through your system faster than fiber." The last thing I want to do is wander around looking like I missed my date with the undertaker, watching the Golden Child fawn all over Walt.

"Will you stop?" Scully complained. "I haven't been to the Henley Park in years. I'm actually looking forward to it."

"Yeah, well..." I paused as we reached the basement.

"Where's it at?"

"YOU forgot something? Mulder, now I know you're not well." She moved as if to reach up and put a hand against my forehead.

I waved her off. "Cut it out. I didn't forget. I wasn't paying attention."

"The Henley Park. You know, that venerable old inn just a few blocks from here? You should take notes when we get there, Mulder. It's very romantic. And you were looking for romance, earlier, as I recall."

"Yeah..." I focused on her. "Well, if I've got to do this, I'd better get out of here at a reasonable time and chase all the moths out of my tux jacket." 

XXX

A rose.

He left a rose on the table next to me. Dinner was ruined, and there was no hope of me enjoying the hundred year old brandy that Sean wanted me to taste. It was hard enough to see him walk in, Scully on his arm, looking like royalty.

This guy epitomized the concept 'dress to kill' in his Armani suits, but he is undeniably lethal in a tux. And, Agent Dana Scully is not exactly an unattractive accessory, even in a sling. Especially in that blue strapless thing that turned her eyes into two blue lasers.

Sean seated them at our table, Scully to my right, Mulder to my left. There was very little table talk during the dinner. Well, Sean and I engaged in a little military theory, and Scully politely answered Sean's blitzkrieg of questions about the shootout. Mulder was silent, but managed not to sulk. He actually seemed amused about something, and kept sending his eyes around the dining room, noting details like the lead glass ceiling and fountain with approval.

As the dessert cart was being wheeled through the room, and Sean got up to get me some of that brandy he had been raving about all evening, Scully rose to excuse herself. I had a moment of actual panic. Alone at the table with Mulder? To my surprise, he stood with her and came around to help her from her chair. As she moved away, he turned back to the table and produced the long stemmed, red rose from within his jacket and laid it on the corner of the table. My first thought was how did he sit through the entire meal without crushing it, and my second thought was what do I do now?

I raised my eyes slowly, but he was gone. I glanced around, and saw him heading in the same direction Agent Scully had disappeared. Scully. The rose wasn't for me. 

It was for Scully.

"Sighing, Walt?" Sean returned with two glasses. "Over the redhead? She's some piece of work, that one."

"Sean, if you want to live to see Brigadier, I suggest you withdraw your fangs," I said, not gently. "If Mulder doesn't kill you, she will. And don't think you've ever come up against an enemy stronger, smarter, or more determined than that redhead." I reached for my snifter, nodded at him and let a little bit of the rich, warmed liquid slip down my throat. Smooth. Just like Mulder's kisses. Damn it, the ache was back.

I thought I'd be okay, when I didn't see him for three days, but I was deluding myself. The hole he punched in my gut the day Scully was shot only continued to grow until it now threatened to absorb me, whole. And there I was, sitting next to him in a romantic restaurant, longing to reach under the table and caress his thigh, and he was completely unaware that I existed. Well, it was my decision, and it was the right decision, for him. He needs to break this cycle of punishment for perceived failures.

"I don't know, Walt." Sean was surveying the horizon, searching for an enemy to engage. "She looks like she'd be fun in a tussle."

"Sean," I said around the rim of my glass. "I didn't know you had a death wish."

Scully came floating back to us, and Sean and I both rose to meet her. She nodded at us, settled into her chair, glanced at the rose and gave Sean a very sweet little smile. I knew that smile well enough to know that General Sean Hardy was a dead man. She looked at me. "Where's Mulder?"

"Right here." He had returned with two flutes of champagne, and presented Scully with one. He surprised me by tipping his glass toward Sean. "Thanks for inviting us.

This is a nice old place." He looked down at Scully.

"Kind of romantic."

Roses. Scully. Romantic. Well, I was the one who said it had to be a relationship. It never occurred to me that the reason he was resisting anything more than sex was because he couldn't love anyone but her.

"It must be," Scully murmured, picking up the rose. She sniffed at it. "Who's your admirer?" 

"It's not--" I cut the words off. Suddenly I felt something swell in me. Hope? Relief? Joy? Passion? "I'm not sure, Agent. I assumed it was yours."

She turned the rose around, and I saw a tiny white ribbon, and even tinier letters: W.S.S. 

I wanted to look at Mulder but I didn't dare give him away.

I merely smiled, knowing full well I was blushing. I didn't care. I was only a heartbeat or two away from grinning like a fool. "I wish I had been paying attention," I said.

"Well, it's a lovely gesture." Scully snapped the stem expertly, and tucked it into my buttonhole. She patted my lapel, gently. "That looks very nice."

I wasn't at all charmed by her actions. I knew she was only putting Sean on notice.

And Sean noticed.

I finally risked a glance at Mulder. He had settled down into his chair, and was sipping champagne, and humming tunelessly. I could feel him in my brain, in my nerves, even in my cock. The rose was for me. Mulder gave me a rose. No wonder women like getting them. That rose gave me some sense of meaning again.

Sean stood. "I should go around and perform my duties as host," he said. "There will be dancing in the other room after dessert."

"I like dancing," Mulder said, to no one in particular.

"I'm especially good if I get to lead."

I nearly broke the stem of my snifter of brandy.

Sean sent him a bewildered look. Scully laughed. I chuckled politely. What I wanted to do was dive for him and drag him under the table. I felt my ass clench.

Mulder. Rose. Me. Dancing. I was now reduced to thinking in one word sentences.

"Well, then you should dance," Sean said, and excused himself with a nod.

Scully was looking at Mulder as if he'd grown another head.

"Mulder, do you want to dance?"

Mulder shook his head and put his glass down. "No, I promised you I'd get you home early, so you could get some rest." He stood, tucking his hands into his pockets in

search of car keys. "But this was nice. I'm glad I came."

He reached out and offered me a hand. "Thank you for insisting, sir."

At first, I wanted to protest. Had I misunderstood? What the hell was going on? Then I felt something being pressed into my hand. Something hard and cool. I didn't need to open my hand as he withdrew his. I knew it was a room key.

I knew it was stamped Henley Park. The little prick got us a room. That wonderful little prick decided to seduce me under the nose of one of the highest ranking members of Pentagon and all his cronies. Only Mulder would have the balls to pull something like that. Which is why I am so hopelessly in love with him.

Mulder moved around the table to draw out Scully's chair.

I stood with them. "Don't you want dessert, Agent Scully?"

I asked, indicating the cart that was now being rolled to our table.

She looked at it for a moment. "No, I really shouldn't.

Thank General..." she paused, politely. "Please thank the general for inviting us." She let Mulder take her arm and maneuver her out of the dining room.

I dropped the key into my breast pocket and settled down with my brandy and erection. Sometimes a cigar is not a cigar.

************************************************* 

It was twenty two hundred hours, and still no Mulder. I had debated taking a shower and letting him find me in bed, but I decided only to remove my jacket and tie an settled in one of a half dozen plush chairs around the sitting room. Mulder had reserved a suite.

There was champagne icing in a bucket on the bar, but I didn't want to open it without him. There was, however, a decent scotch and I had helped myself to that. For a while, it was pleasant to merely sit and contemplate the evening ahead, the journey we were taking, the flavor of his kisses, the warmth of him. I had missed him.

It had become, in such a short amount of time, my greatest pleasure throughout the day to pause, momentarily, and recall the feel of his head on my shoulder, his arm draped over me as he slept. These last three days, however, I had been thinking of the rage and loss that played in his eyes as he walked out on me. I watched the door, waiting for him to walk back in.

I knew a lot about Mulder, and I had learned a great deal more when he let me near him. I had expected his need for punishment, and I had known that sending him away was for his own good. I had known he would go. I never expected he would come back.

He didn't just stumble back, either. He had calculated it, planned it. Here I was, at the scene of the crime, a suite, wine waiting, the scent of a single rose wafting to me over the scotch, reminding me that this was a seduction. 

He made an effort. He wanted me back. My ego swelled.

But, two hours later, it was moderately deflated. No sign, no sound. Maybe I did somehow manage to misunderstand.

What else could he have meant than this? But this was Mulder, and rules for the ordinary need not apply.

I heard a soft chirp, recognized my cell phone and got up, grudgingly, almost dreadfully, and collected it. Had he been rushing back from Scully's apartment and been in an accident? Had he been waylaid by one of his myriad of enemies? Was he lying wounded in a gutter? Unconscious in a local ER? Dead? It took almost superhuman strength to flip open the cell and bark, "Skinner."

"Is the coast clear?" 

"Mulder? Where are you?" 

"In the lobby. I was waiting for soldier boy to leave."

"'Soldier boy'? You mean Sean?"

Mulder's voice was unexpectedly tight. "Yeah, Sean. You know, when I reserved that room I sort of thought it would be for the two of us. I didn't know I was setting up a comfortable trysting spot for the two of you."

"...trysting spot...?" Lord, the man was jealous! "What makes you think Sean was here with me?"

"Because when I got back here an hour or so ago, you were both gone and someone said he'd gone upstairs. He hasn't come down."

"He's probably with a waitress or some other wolf bait."

My amusement didn't last. He didn't come back for want of me. He was jealous because he thought I'd found someone else. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mulder, but Sean is not interested in me. He prefers women."

"Oh?" Mulder was quiet for a moment. "Then I suppose I'd better get my butt up there before you start preferring women again."

"That would be nice." 

He was at the door less than five minutes later. From the flush on his face I knew he hadn't bothered to wait for the ornate but ancient elevator and had taken the seven flights of stairs on a gallop. I wanted to pull him into my arms and crush him against me, but I couldn't make myself move toward him. Wanting me back only because someone else might have wanted me wasn't a good reason to be wanted.

Well, I decided, it was time to put the scotch away. Even my inner voice was slurred.

He stood against the door, looking at me. It wasn't exactly a diffident expression. He just looked uncertain.

"You like the room?" he asked, tucking his key into his pocket.

"Very much," I assured him. I waited but he seemed disinclined to say more. "Why are we here?" I ventured.

He avoided my eyes. "I was trying to be romantic. To tell you I...I was sorry, and that I..." I think his lower lip quivered, but I can't be sure. "You said I could come back when I was ready to accept what you could give me." He sighed, heavily. "I'm ready."

I rose and came within an arm's length of him. "Are you sure, Mulder? I'm not going to hurt you. I won't--"

"Damn it, you did hurt me," he blurted out. "You threw me out."

"Mulder, I told you to go for your own sake."

"Why is it whenever someone says they're doing it for your own sake, it always hurts you more?" he wondered.

I smiled at him. "Are you sure this isn't about Sean? Maybe a little jealousy?"

"Maybe a lot of jealousy," Mulder corrected. "But, no, I was trying to figure something to do before I saw you with him." He moved toward me, got close enough that we could have kissed, but he didn't touch me. "Don't do that to me again, Walter. Don't throw me out. It's cold out there."

I lifted a hand tentatively, and brushed hair back from his eyes. "I missed you, Fox."

He leaned against my touch. "I missed you." He whispered, low, "I missed you so much."

Then I kissed him, drew his face upward with my other hand and kissed him, deeply. He tasted of champagne and sunflower seeds and a hint of peppermint. I knew him well enough to know that at some point on his way back, he'd stopped to brush his teeth, and then stood down in the lobby, pandering to his addiction until he was finally driven to call me. He slid his arms around me, and pulled me against him to finish the kiss. 

When we broke away for air, I looked at him. "Well? What shall we do now?"

"We don't have to do anything," he said. "It's enough that..." He lowered his cheek to my throat. "This is enough."

It was. "But, I thought you were going to teach me to dance?" I teased him.

He turned his head enough that he could look up at me.

"Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Very sure." And now, finally, I was.

He stepped back, chuckling, and pulled things from his pockets; condoms and lube. "Trained field investigator and former Boy Scout," he said.

"Somehow, I have trouble seeing you as a Boy Scout," I laughed.

"If I were you, I wouldn't be making fun of the person who holds the fate of your ass in his hands," he warned.

I sent my eyes over him, hungrily. He looked so damned edible in that tuxedo, I wanted to remove it with my teeth.

"Somehow, I'm not too concerned about my ass."

"Huh." He leaned over the chair where I had draped my jacket, and plucked the rose from my lapel. He sniffed it, gently, and tucked it into his breast pocket. "It's official," he murmured. "You've been deflowered."

I wanted to scowl at him, but I could see a twinkle in his eyes behind that shy smile. I reached out and tugged at his tie. "Agent Mulder, may I have the honor of this dance?"

We did dance. Naked. Our bodies pressed against one another, the rhythm a slow seduction that left me wanting to go on and on and at the same time, made me want to throw him on the bed and ravish him. And then, when I thought every nerve in my body would start screaming, he sank to his knees, kissing me randomly; shoulder, nipple, navel, hip and then, with one of those sleepy sell-my-soul-for-one smiles, sucked my cock into his mouth.

No, it wasn't merely the most amazing wet dream of my life. Mulder did know what he was doing and he did it well. I wanted to protest, to remind him we had made other plans, but I could not make my mouth form words. All that came out were inarticulate grunts and moans and then a near bellow of release as I came, fingers clenched in his hair.

He rocked back on his heels, and dragged his hand across his mouth. "Good?" he asked, slyly.

"What happened to the dancing?" I mumbled, incoherently. 

"Oh, that was just the first set." He struggled to his feet and put his hands on my shoulders and started backing me to the bed. "It's a well known fact that orgasm relaxes you," he continued, in a soft, matter of fact tone, as he arranged me, on my back, on the bed. "Since we're contemplating penetrating several rings of muscle which respond via involuntary reactions, I thought it might help if you were a little relaxed."

"I am relaxed," I promised. I was. Totally, completely sated by his mouth work and utterly at peace by his presence.

"Good." He crawled up over me, and kissed me. His face was solemn. "Listen, Walter. I love you. I want to make you happy. If this isn't the way to do it, just say so. Okay?"

I caught him and rolled over, pinning him beneath me.

"Fox. I love you. I want you to be a part of me, just the way you let me be a part of you. I seem to recall you telling me about a week ago that you wanted me in you.

Well, now I'm asking you to return the favor. I want you in me."

"Bossy, bossy, bossy," he tsked at me and pushed until I moved back on my back. "Okay, let's see how relaxed you really are." He knelt between my legs and encouraged me to pull my knees up almost to my chest. I felt a little silly, but one palm brushed between my cheeks and I didn't care, anyway. He held up his hands. One of his fingers was well lubed. "This will be a little cool," he warned.

I felt him open me a little with one hand, and then I felt the shock of the cold lube and the hot pressure of his finger. I clenched against both.

"Shh," he soothed, and ran his fingertip around my anus, gently, spreading the lubrication, and pressing against me until his finger finally slipped inside. He stroked in and out slowly.

For a few minutes, it was merely an uncomfortable invasion and I was starting to doubt if I could let him go on.

Then, as I began to relax and accept one finger and then two, I started to find it enjoyable. The third finger hurt, and I clenched again, but just as I did, he crooked his fingers upward, and brushed against my prostate. For one, star spangled moment, all was well. "Oh, God," I groaned.

When I opened my eyes, he was grinning at me. "Liked that?" he asked, and did it again.

To my utter amazement, I was beginning to respond. I could feel my cock start to stir, and then felt the fingers of his free hand, slip around it, and squeeze it, softly, in rhythm to the dance his other hand was doing. "Please, Mulder," I gasped. "Fox, please, just...please..."

He leaned forward, and ran his tongue over my glans. "Rule Number Two," he prompted, grinning.

"Please...just...fuck me," I implored.

Looking back, I suppose that was the magic word. He seemed to lose all sense of control then, and was pushing himself inside me a moment later, both hands clasped around my knees for balance. "Oh, my...Walter," he groaned, sinking all the way in.

It hurt, but it hurt in such an amazing way I thought I would willingly be wounded this way daily. "Good, Fox," I panted. "It's good."

"Oh, yeah," he agreed. His eyes slipped shut and his hips began to rock.

And we danced.

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Same Game: Part IX - Full Court Press  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.   
SUMMARY: Liars and trials and snares, oh my! FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17   
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps" (and a tiny nod to ever so wonderful Hal this time), and querida Susan, for her brilliant execution of all things beta.

* * *

Same Game IX - Full Court Press  
by Mik

I must have glanced at my watch for the thousandth time. It still said 4:20. A look at the clock on Scully's desk confirmed it. Time had stopped. I wasn't sure, but I might have been relieved.

It was my watch alarm that woke me a little over twelve hours before. I awoke exactly where I had collapsed, in a sticky, sated heap, on top of my boss. Rolling off of him with a groan, I had groped, blindly, to silence the alarm before it disturbed my slumbering giant. I have to confess that, at that moment, I was a little intimidated by him, even in sleep. It seemed incredible that, after years of being reamed by him, I had returned the favor.

He murmured something and I rubbed his chest soothingly. Amazing chest. He had been trying to tell me he was too old for me, and yet he was built like a tank, stronger at his age than I ever was or ever will be. His chest was solid and broad and well-defined, and yet had made my pillow all night, the strong even thrumming of his heart a lullaby.

The pleasure of crawling back up there and sleeping for another two or three hours was almost irresistible, but we were two men in a hotel room on an early Thursday morning, and we needed to get out under the cloak of darkness.

And silence. We didn't talk much as we took turns showering and getting dressed. As he rolled over and started to get out of bed, he winced and looked at me, a little surprised. "Yeah,"

I agreed with a grim smile, "I should have warned you. You are gonna' feel it this morning." 

He reached over and patted my thigh. "Worth it," he mumbled before stumbling to the bathroom.

Well, I admit I was relieved. What might have been all right in a champagne-laced moment last night might be all wrong in the reality-driven light of morning. 

The only other thing he said to me was just as we reached the door. He leaned into me for an almost chaste kiss and said, "I'll see you at home tonight."

Home. I had 'home' to go to. But...what was waiting for me there? He'll have had all day to think about it, a day to decide he hated what happened to him and he never wants to see me again.

"Mulder, why don't you go home?"

I turned sharply at the sound of her voice. "Scully?"

"I think Mulder has a hot date," she taunted. "I think

he's been staring at the clock all day."

"I think he will not dignify your ridiculous assumptions with a reply." I admit, I was shutting down my PC.

"You might as well go. After all, we put in OT last night at that party." She was now sneering.

"I thought you were having a good time," I protested, unrolling my cuffs. "Romantic dinner at the Henley Park?"

She was making the kind of face I'll do anything to avoid.

"General Hardy is a pig. He kept groping my thigh."

I didn't let my fury show. I grabbed a piece of notepaper and scribbled something.

"What's that?" she asked, watching me fold it and tuck it into my shirt pocket.

"Just a note to remind me to have him killed. I know people."

She nodded. "Just let it be something the Metro P.D. will have to investigate. I don't want to do the autopsy."

"C'mon, Scully. Think of the pleasure you'll have castrating him."

She wrinkled her nose at me. "I'd have more pleasure doing it while he's still alive."

I paused as I shrugged on my jacket and looked down at her.

"Sometimes you frighten me, Scully." I pushed my hands into my pockets and found another piece of paper. It read: Dinner at seven. Bring clothes for tomorrow. 

My hand clutched around the paper just as the feelings clutched around my heart. He wants me to spend the night. I shoved the paper back in my pocket and tossed Scully a wave. "See ya' in the morning."

She gave me a smile and a speculative look. "Will I?"

I know I blushed. "Scully, tomorrow's a working day."

"Well, you know the old saying; don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I turned at the door and returned to her desk, trying to tower over her. "Someday, Scully, you must give me a detailed list of what you wouldn't do."

She chuckled and gave me a half-hearted push. "Go on, get out of here. I will not have you late for a date on my account."

"Scully, would you be terribly disappointed to find out that I do not have a date?" I had to smile, though it was more for my benefit than hers. "I am just going home."

She returned to her file. "If that's your story, Mulder, stick to it. I'll see you tomorrow."

I didn't feel like my dignity was worth prolonging the argument. And, if I stayed, she might start asking questions I definitely didn't want to answer.

I didn't waste much time in my apartment, either. A quick run through the bedroom to throw stuff into my garment bag. A minute in the kitchen, gulping down water to try and combat a major case of dry mouth. As I was putting the nearly empty bottle back in the nearly empty fridge, I saw something and reached for it. A red rosebud. I'd made some really stupid joke the night before when I swiped it from him. I meant to throw it away when I got home, I really did. But, when I carried it into the kitchen to dispose of it, I suddenly couldn't do it. I tossed it in the refrigerator and decided I'd toss it out later. It was still in there when I walked out the door.

At 7:01, I was parked in front of his complex, backing out of the car, balancing the garment bag over my arm and a bottle of scotch in the other. I picked up the liquor on my way because I just felt I couldn't come empty-handed, especially after the night before. If he were a woman, I'd be bringing flowers or something.

"Don't you want to park inside, Mr. Skinner?"

Skinner? I jerked around, hungry for a sight of him, and found myself nose-to-nose with the girl I would have had a crush on in high school; brown-eyed, golden haired, pouty-lipped. Well, maybe I wouldn't have had a crush on her if she was seeing Skinners that weren't there.

"Well, don't you, Mr. Skinner?"

Oh. She was talking to me. "Uh..."

"Your brother said you were coming to stay for a few days," she explained. "I'll let you in the gate so you can park in his guest space."

Brother. Stay. Few days. Brother? "Sure. That would be nice." I unlocked the car.

She hopped into the passenger seat. "I'll give you the code for the gate," she told me.

I had a parental moment, my first ever. "Honey, do you always just jump into strange men's cars?"

She laughed. She had the kind of laugh I always thought

Scully should have; a deep, back of the throat chuckle that was going to be the destruction of countless men before too much longer. "You're not a stranger. You're Mr. Skinner's brother. I told him I'd look out for you and let you into the parking structure."

At the gate she leaned over me, oblivious (or not) to the fact that she was rubbing herself all over me to enter the code into the keyboard. What surprised me was that I seemed to be oblivious as well. I mean...come on, young blonde rubbing her nubile body all over me, and all I could think of was 'Can't you open that gate any faster? I'm going to be late.' 

The gate began to swing out of the way, and I swooped inside and into MY spot. I turned and looked at her as I pulled the brake. "Thank you very much..." I looked at her questioningly.

She fingered hair back from her face. "Felicity. I know, isn't it awful?" She chuckled again. "I always wanted to be named something straightforward, like...Frank."

"Well, thanks for the help, Frank," I said, pushing my door open.

She seemed disinclined to move. "Do you need help finding his unit?"

"Oh, no." I tugged my garment bag free and reached for the scotch. "I've been here before." 

"Really?" She gave me a very frank assessment. "I don't remember ever seeing you around." 

"I usually come late at night," I answered. I shut my door, pointedly. She didn't move. With a sigh, I hitched my garment bag over my shoulder and came around the car to

open her door. "Thanks again for getting me in." I reached for her hand and started to pull.

"There you are, Fox." 

We both looked. He was standing at the bottom stair, jeans and polo shirt, looking as if he was ready to have roast blonde for dinner.

I dropped her hand, guiltily.

She bounced out of the car, working her hair back with another artless gesture. "I found him for you, Mr. Skinner. It's okay that I let him park inside, right?"

"Fine. Thank you." He came up to me and took my bag.

I held out the bottle. "You didn't have to bring anything," he murmured.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know what kind of wine to bring," I answered. I could tell by the way his eyes went over the label that he approved of the gesture. Man, he looked good out of the corporate drag. That fringe of dark hair was a bit ruffled. I'd never seen that. I mean, you don't think of Skinner as one who ever suffers bed hair. "Anything for my big brother, right?" I wasn't sure but he looked as if he wanted to hug me, and I know I sure wanted to hug him, but Frank was hovering nearby. So, I shut and locked the car, and let him lead me away.

"Who IS she?" I hissed as we hit the stairs.

"Down, boy," he warned. "She's too young for you."

"No, she isn't," I assured him. "I don't think I'd ever be old enough for her. She's...uh...advanced."

He shot me a look. "Well, let's just say that you show idiotic tendencies when it comes to who you're attracted to."

"Watch that dangling participle," I warned as we reached his front door. "And may I remind you," I added in a whisper as he twisted the key in the lock. "I am extremely attracted to you."

He pushed the door open. "My point, exactly."

Uh oh. I stalled in the hallway.

He eased past me. "I'll take your stuff upstairs. Fix us a drink, will you?"

I panicked. I admit it. This did not bode well. I had expected to be assaulted the minute we crossed the threshold and he's making nice as if I was his brother. He did think about it all day, and tonight I would get the 'This was a mistake, Mulder,' speech. I entertained the notion of walking out. Then I decided he had my favorite suit upstairs. I'd better hear what he had to say.

I was putting a little scotch in a couple of glasses when I felt his fingertips on my shoulders, and then the heat of his body close, but not touching mine. "How was your day?"

"Long," I told him. "Lonely." I turned and handed him his drink. "Scully thinks I have a hot date tonight," I ventured.

He raised a brow as he reached for his glass. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her I was going home."

He put the glass down on the bar and pulled me just close enough to kiss me. One of those sweet kisses that express tenderness and aren't meant to be the gate-pass to sex. One of those kisses that women love and men always forget the significance of. Well, I'll always remember that one: it tasted like 'Welcome Home'.

****************************************************** 

"Hey, look, Scully, you made the papers."

"Please, Mulder. I've had a horde of press hounding me since yesterday when I left work." I was looking at a picture of her, taken at the press conference on Wednesday. Scully is the only person I've ever known who looks great even in news photos. I was already getting the scissors out to add this to my Scully file. "What did they want? An autograph?" 

"No. They wanted to know about our sources for finding the stolen Fed Reserve truck."

The tone of her voice was hard, angry. I looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone has come forth claiming that he was the one who revealed the location, but that he revealed the information under duress."

"Duress?" I swiveled toward her. "You mean, we dragged him down to the basement and smacked him around a little?"

I grinned. "Scully, you brute."

"Mulder, don't make jokes. This is a serious allegation."

"It is a joke. The FBI doesn't resort to those kinds of tactics.

We leave that to the local police. We'll just put illegal phone taps and surveillance on a suspect." She wasn't laughing with me. "Who is this guy accusing of brutality?"

"Skinner."

"My Sk--our Skinner?" I gulped. "He would never..."

Well, he could get very physical when sufficiently provoked. No, he'd never break the rules. Not Walter. "No."

"We know that," Scully answered grimly. "But, is the public going to believe it?"

"Why not? We believe a president who says he didn't inhale or screw interns."

She gave me one of her looks, the one that says 'I've had about all I'm going to take from you, little boy'. "Mulder, be serious."

"I am being serious." I unfolded the paper and began scanning the article. "This guy's got a good imagination," I murmured after a few moments. "He's got some detail in here. I wonder who he knows at the Bureau who could have told him about the exact location of that com room?"

I folded the paper. "He's very believable."

"Yes," Scully said, unhappily.

"Scully, you don't think..."

"Oh, come on, Mulder, I know our boss. He couldn't have done that." She flicked a hand toward the paper in mine.

"I just hope he has a good alibi for that period of time."

"Scully, I don't care if he does or not. I know he didn't do this." He didn't. He couldn't have. He couldn't have broken every tenet he believes in and then come up to the Vineyard to be with me. I admit, I'm just vain enough to believe what he said about respecting my principles. I opened the paper again and searched for a time frame. "He couldn't have done this. He was working...oh, Friday night." Oh, shit. He spent that night with me. Oh, shit. Oh shit. Ohshit. Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit.

I stood up and stretched, trying to look like I was about to take a leisurely stroll to the men's room. "I'll be back in a minute," I announced. At the door, I turned left and ran.

I tried to look calm and composed by the time I reached his office, but I didn't worry too much when I didn't. Kim is used to me looking like I'm being chased by rhinos when I barge in there. "Can I?" I asked, and headed for his door without waiting for an answer.

"Agent Mulder, he's--" 

I pushed the door open and shut it with my weight. A quick scan of the room found him alone, looking absolutely miserable. My appearance didn't seem to help him much. "We have to talk."

"Not here." He gestured over his shoulder, toward the mall.

I nodded and wheeled. His voice came from behind me. "And the next time I leave instructions I'm not to be disturbed, heed them." It was no effort to look chastened as I left.

He met me at the bench Scully and I call ours. He didn't sit down. He stood in front of me, hands thrust in the pockets of his trench coat. "I didn't do it, Fox," he said quietly.

I looked up at him, amazed he would think he needed to tell me. "I know that. Unless you were having an out of my body experience at the time, you were with me--in every sense of the word." I swallowed tightly. "Why didn't you tell me last night?"

He shook his head. "I just found out this morning. No complaint was filed. This guy just went to the press and they ran with it."

"Shit, Walter. You have to tell them where you were."

"I can't do that."

"If you don't, it will be the end of your career."

"And if I do, it's the end of both our careers."

Well, I didn't have an answer for that. So I looked for a question I could answer. "The OPR's going to be up your butt in a few hours," I predicted, grimly. "I'd better go clear my stuff out of your place."

"No."

I looked up again. "But, I--"

His expression read 'Don't fuck with me, now, Mulder'. "I'll bring it to you. I'll meet you someplace. I want to...I NEED to be with you this weekend." He shrugged. "It'll be okay. I'd already let it be known around the office that I was going away this weekend. That way no one would bother us. Now, I'll really just go."

******************************************************** 

Mulder really loves this cloak-and-dagger stuff. And he's good at it. I was thinking we'd just find some out of the way roadhouse to meet and spend the weekend together. Mulder pulled together a series of stops and checks that would have confused the best surveillance team in the country. We met, switched cars and drove all over the Eastern seaboard, only to end up in a motel about ten miles from the Bureau. Mulder called it the 'Hide In Plain Sight' theory.

By the time we checked in, and Mulder brought groceries in from the car, I was exhausted. The whole day insisted on replaying itself in my head. Everyone appeared to be supportive and sympathetic, but the atmosphere along the entire sixth floor was beginning to smell of tar and feathers. And the worst part of it all was that, in reality, I deserved it.

I was settled deep in a lumpy chair, scowling at the world while Mulder unpacked groceries in the mini fridge. I was watching his ass as he knelt there, trying to make everything fit, and wishing I had the energy to get out of my chair and drag him to bed. We hadn't made love the night before, being content just to sit and talk and be close. At my age, sex every night is impossible, and he had, in his own words, screwed my brains out the night before that.

I must have dozed off, because it seemed as if only a moment later, he was kneeling beside me, hands on my knee, looking concerned. "Tired?"

I reached out and touched his hair. It still surprised me that it was so soft. "Very, I'm afraid."

He caught my wrist. "Well, let's get you to bed." He stood and began to tug. "How 'bout a back rub?"

"Sounds nice," I agreed. 

"You know, they have a decent sized bathtub in this joint," he said as he got me to my feet. "You want a bath before you sleep? Might help you unwind."

"Mulder," I began regretfully, "I don't think I'm up to--"

He looked hurt. "I'm not trying to seduce you. I'm just trying to look after you. I have a nurturing streak of my own, I'll have you know, it's just very small." He started to tug me in the direction of the bathroom. "So take advantage of it, will you?"

I smiled at him. The idea of him being nurturing was inconceivable and at the same time very erotic. I tugged back, causing him to tumble into my arms. I kissed his cheek, impulsively. "A hot bath does sound good. Are you included in the deal?"

He looked surprised and a bit embarrassed by the unexpected show of affection. I've noticed he does very well when he initiates it, or if he's forewarned of my intent, but out of the blue kisses or caresses still make him start like a wild horse. "Oh, I might make you tea and wash your face," he teased, after a moment. He unwound himself from my embrace. "Come on. You get naked and I'll start the water."

It was almost too much effort to undress. It was too much effort to hang things up. I didn't even have the strength to feel guilty about the clothes I left scattered across the bed. I just shed them like a husk and left them. 

I came into the bathroom, and found Mulder scowling at something in his hand. "What's the matter?"

He jerked around, guiltily, and tucked his hand behind his back. "Nothing."

"Come on, Mulder," I coaxed, not patiently. "What have you got behind your back?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. Get in, I'll get the water started."

I reached for him. "Mulder," I said, wearily. "Don't make me wrestle you. I'm too tired and the bathroom's too small. One of us will end up with our head bumped."

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand forward and held out a small green bottle. "Bath oil?" I said, incredulous.

He shrugged, not meeting my eyes. "I keep reading that eucalyptus is a good stress reliever. I thought you might..." He let the words trail off, and sighed. "I thought you might like to try it."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Mulder, you are a constant source of amazement to me."

He snatched the bottle back. "I'm glad I keep you entertained. I thought you just loved me for my ass." He leaned over and started the water.

"Your ass is lovable, I grant you that." I pulled the bottle back and opened it, sniffing tentatively. "Smells good. Stress relief, eh?"

"That's what they tell me."

I poured a capful into the tub, doubtfully. The water turned a pale green and the air did smell something like a camping trip in a bottle. Nice, actually. I put the cap back on the bottle and set it on the counter. "Thank you, Mulder." I pulled him back up and into my arms. "You may not nurture often, but you nurture well." I kissed him.

He wiggled against me. "Of course, sex is great for relieving stress, too," he said against my mouth.

"We'll discuss that. After my bath." He felt good in my arms. I liked having him pinned against a wall, my body molded against his. Yes, after the bath, I thought. "Why don't you get in with me?"

He considered the tub. "I think that would be a bit crowded," he said, sounding regretful. "You take a bath, and I'll meet you in bed." He hovered at the door, watching me step in, sit down, stretch out, sigh. "You want some tea? I got some of that stuff you made for me."

"I thought you didn't want me to go to sleep just yet," I reminded him.

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, I drank it and we didn't sleep right away, did we?"

I let my memories expand to that night, how unsure I was, but how much I wanted him. I recalled the heat of his body as I covered him, kissed him, felt him laugh then moan beneath me. I thought of the way we came almost simultaneously, just from the contact of our bodies. How much I was hooked from that moment, on the feel of his skin against mine. "No," I agreed, sighing, again, in contentment. "We didn't."

When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling at the side of the tub, looking anxious. "No regrets, Walter?"

I touched his face. "None."

He hesitated and added, "Not even about the other night?"

I didn't have to think about it. "No. I admit I prefer making love to you, but I don't regret you making love to me. What about you?"

He shrugged again. "I like both."

I cuffed him, good-naturedly. "Regrets?"

"Oh, God, no." He actually smiled. The smile faded quickly, though. He leaned forward, until his brow met mine. "We'll get through this, Walter. I won't abandon you."

I think, if I had had the strength left, I would have wept at that moment. Instead, I reached up and put a hand around his neck, holding him against me. "I love you, Fox. I won't abandon you, either."

Those words seemed to have the same effect on him. He blinked several times and pulled away from me. "I'll see about that tea." He was gone.

The room was steamy and scented strongly with that bath oil. The water was warm and womb-like. Mulder would have found the association significant. Of course, he finds the contents of my refrigerator significant. I tried to cling to that thought, any thought of Mulder, of his unexpected nurturing streak, the sounds he makes in bed, the rare moment when he's caught laughing. Even with an image of his smile, I felt him slipping away from me, his expression contorted as he melted between my clutching fingers, and what was left was another face, equally contorted, my fingers around his throat.

It was years ago. When I was a field agent. Hunting down a man who kidnapped boys and put them on the street. I'd been to the morgue that morning to look at the body of an angel faced twelve year old boy who had been slashed and beaten by a john. Even as a police officer, I had never seen anything like that. I was disgusted, enraged, homicidal. Still young and idealistic enough to believe that crime had to be punished, still shell-shocked enough by war to believe that ends justified most means.

I found a man who knew the man. He was young himself, oily and sly, an arrogant crack fiend who had no intention of doing anything but watching earnest and determined Feds dance. I lost it when he sneered and called the children meat. I pulled my gun and pressed it hard under his jaw and suggested to him what the results would be should he survive having part of his brain splattered over the wall behind him. He talked. He cried. He sang. We made HIM dance.

That night I went home and thought long and hard about turning in my badge...or eating my gun. But I had Sharon to think of, the home we wanted to build, the child we wanted to have, and I did what any Marine would do. I sucked it up and reported to work the next day. We caught the bastard, put him away, and I never looked back.

"Walter?"

I jerked upward in the tub. "Yes, Mulder?" I snarled.

He was staring at me, startled by my tone. "I guess the tea wasn't necessary." He put the cup on the counter. "Don't let the water get too cold." He turned away. 

"Mulder. Fox." I reached out. "Sorry. I'm just exhausted. I don't mean to take it out on you."

"It's okay." He came back to the tub and dropped to his knees, letting his fingers trail in the water. "This stuff doesn't smell too bad."

"No. It's nice. It was nice of you to think of this." I watched him stare into the water. "I'm sorry I snapped."

He smiled but he didn't look at me. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can hand me the tea," I told him. I didn't want tea. I wanted scotch and his mouth. I took a small sip. "This is good," I said, surprised.

He smirked at me. "And you thought I was just a pretty face."

"I guess I did," I confessed.

"How long do you plan to soak up all this stress relief?"

"Why? Are we on an agenda here?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It's eleven. I want you in bed in fifteen minutes and in me in twenty." He sneaked a quick glance toward my cock that had twitched at the suggestion. He didn't succeed in hiding his smile.

"In you?"

"Well," he smiled again, and that smile could have made me do cartwheels. "I didn't say where in me. I think even a weary old man like you could handle a blow job."

I knew I was getting stiff now. "Yeah, I think I could. What about you?"

He arched a brow. "What do you mean, what about me? I demand parity, buddy boy, so start work on relaxing that jaw of yours. I don't want you gritting your teeth and doing something we'll both regret."

"And I would," I agreed. "I'm fond of that aspect of your...personality."

"Well, let's see, you like my ass, my face and my...personality." He stood and stretched. "Anything else?"

I considered him. The bath, the tea, his presence were working their magic. I wanted him. "I'll get back to you."

****************************************************** 

Two Saturdays in a row I've awakened ridiculously early, in a motel room, with Mulder in my arms. I'm thinking this could become habit-forming. Breakfast was drive-through that he went for and brought back, high in cholesterol, low in flavor, and dessert had been quick, sweaty, loud sex. 

He made a picture, sprawled across the bed in nothing but one of my tee shirts, thumbing through a magazine while I read the Post and finished the coffee he'd made. He's learning, by the way. This batch was superior, at least, to the stuff he brought back with breakfast.

"Walter, have you ever heard of Tantric breathing?" he asked.

I looked up from the paper. "What?"

He looked over his shoulder at me. "Tantric breathing. It's Zen, or something. It's supposed to increase intimacy and intensify orgasm."

"Mulder, if our orgasms were any more intense they'd kill me." I returned to the paper, paused and looked up again. "What the hell are you reading?"

"An article on quickie sex. I was thinking it would come in handy when we were between meetings or something."

"Don't even think about it." I put the paper down and came to the bed, kneeling behind him, dragging my hand up his bare leg. "What magazine?"

Embarrassed, he showed me the cover. "Scully's got me hooked on it," he confessed. "She has a subscription to it and I read hers all the time."

"Bath oil, tea, and women's magazine articles about getting more out of sex?" I reached up between his legs and squeezed his balls firmly. "Just checking."

He rolled the magazine up and smacked my head with it. "Thanks a lot. Just for that, I won't try their recipe for spicy tofu tacos." He pulled away from me. 

"Good." I caught his ankle and wrested the magazine from his hands. "Mulder, this is two months old. You don't really read these, do you?"

"Take the worried look off your face, Butch," he said, sitting up. "Sundance isn't gonna' start riding sidesaddle. I do read them, though. Or rather, Scully and I do. She saves them up for our road trips. We take all the 'How well do you know your mate?' tests and howl. These magazines have livened up many a dull field assignment, I assure you." He took it from me and spread it open to one of those quizzes. "You want to see how well you know me?"

"I know how well I know you," I answered, and flung it across the room. "I know if I kiss you right," I pressed my mouth to the tendon that joined his neck to his shoulder, "there, you're mine."

He moaned slightly. "I'm yours no matter where you kiss me," he mumbled. I felt his fingers wind around my neck and he wriggled closer so that he was under my torso. He opened his eyes, met mine and glanced away, self-consciously. "God, that sounded trite, didn't it?"

I studied his face. He looked almost...unhappy. "Is it true?" I asked him.

He didn't meet my eyes. "Yeah."

"Mulder?"

His eyes flickered up to mine, reluctantly. "Yes?"

"Is it true?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It is. It's weird. I've never been too good in relationships. Part of the reason is I don't give myself. I don't really have claim on me, myself, so how can I give me away?"

I shifted around to pull him against me, stroking his shoulders and back. I felt him sigh, felt the muscles ripple under my fingers. "But, you," he said, muffled against my chest. "You just took what you wanted, and it was okay."

"Was it?"

"Yeah." I felt him press his cheek to my chest. "But, you didn't just take part of me and leave a hole. You put something back."

"What?"

He sighed again. "You." 

-THE END-


End file.
